Debaucery
by DesertC
Summary: Debauchery and Sorcery - a powerful combination. Severus is finally free and immerses himself in his newfound freedom by pursuing hedonistic pleasures. Regarded as both a hero and man of mystery, he has become an object of desire for many. However, one woman seems to be immune to his seductive charm.
1. Debaucery

A/N: So here's my latest fic. Thanks to those of you who have read and reviewed my other stories. As with the others, this one is for mature readers, **strictly 18+ readers only.** Warnings: sex, drugs, violence. Let me know if you enjoy it, DSx

I am greatly indebted to the wonderful Marriage1988 for the original premise, summary, title and many of the lines in this first chapter. I loved the idea and only hope that I can do her vision justice.

* * *

He found her tits hypnotic. The way they moved—like Newton's cradle, knocking together. Cha-cha—cha-cha. Without the metallic chink of course. Just the perfect rhythm as she bounced vigorously on his cock. She was quite single-minded this one. And rather proficient. The course she took down his cock, from tip to base, was absolutely vertical, thumping down so heavily on each descent that he felt like he was being fucked by a pile driver. She was also doing so much of the work that he barely needed to thrust at all. And so it was in relaxed repose, all except his well-pummeled cock, that he flicked a spark into the rough end of a cigarette and sucked in a languid lungful of tobacco—whisky-laced for the absolute wanker he'd become. And he fucking loved it.

The heady shot of nicotine gave the tequila already displacing most of his thoughts an extra nudge and he found himself appraising her impressive attempts to impale herself with a level of detachment—bred of yet further over-indulgence. _But was there such a thing as too much fucking?_ Not so far. Not when it had suddenly become so easy.

The hero title had started off as an uneasy encumbrance but he'd quickly realised that it was a ticket into the knickers of just about any woman he fancied. And many he didn't. The blonde gearing up to come around his cock had been trying to get him drunk—plying him with shots, the last few from her mouth as she locked onto him like a lipsticked lamprey.

She was too young for him really. And probably too pretty if truth be told. But looks didn't seem to factor heavily in any of these exchanges. Apparently he was mysterious. He certainly revealed nothing of himself. Nothing that hadn't already been splashed like a serve of greasy cod across the papers anyway. And these days even the papers had given up reporting on his flings—a different woman hanging off his arm every night was no longer considered news. The fact that he'd fucked Rita Skeeter in the arse was further insurance against unfavourable press—she didn't want to risk that he wouldn't fuck her there again.

The next lungful was exhaled through gritted teeth as he felt her young pussy grip him like a desperate fist. This was his favourite part of all—watching them come apart. Sometimes he came. Sometimes he didn't. But that power over pleasure was something that couldn't be surpassed. And if the person was very special, he would be the one in the driver's seat—controlling every element until they were begging for release. And that always made him come.

"Sir!" she panted, much higher pitched than before. "Uuuhhh." Her head lolled toward him. "I need to . . . I . . . I'm going to come!"

He sucked on the cigarette and nodded that she should continue.

"I love your cock, sir!" she gasped as she faltered in her rhythm before exploding, shrieking out her release as she convulsed around his slippery pole. Disappearing the ash from his cigarette with a flick of his index finger, he gave a satisfied snort. He'd picked her as a screamer right from the start—the way she carried herself, tits out, a good set of lungs—he'd never been wrong yet.

He placed a steady hand on her quivering thigh. Her pussy felt good hitching and shuddering around him. But not quite good enough. She was a pleasant little thing, pert tits rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath—but the truth was he'd had better. He wondered about the brunette he'd seen her with at the bar downstairs. Perhaps there was an opportunity to take this to the next level, to give his very selective cock something to get a little more excited about.

"I used to smoke," she smiled with red-smeared lips, swollen from her desperate cock sucking earlier. "Had to give it up though. My boyfriend didn't like it."

Snape took a long, deep drag, before pulling her down to him so that his mouth was upon hers. He exhaled slowly, filling the open cavern of her mouth. She inhaled, holding it in for as long as she could before letting it dissipate in a thin cloud as he leaned back with a smirk. It turned her on even more—if that was humanly possible. Just another part of the former potions master which she found darkly erotic.

"Will you be missed?" His baritone had been roughened to a sexy growl by the tobacco. "I noticed you had a friend with you earlier—brunette—what happened to her?"

"Oh, she's probably still down there, waiting for me." The woman wondered why he was asking. But she could almost guess—he hadn't developed the reputation as a devout pleasure-seeker or, among her circle of friends, a sexy man-slut, for nothing.

"Why not ask her to join us?" Snape slid his hand in silky seduction up her inner thigh. "If you don't mind, that is."

He'd realised early that a blend of subtle incitement and commanding authority worked just as well in the bedroom as it had the classroom—only with sex as the outcome. Although he'd admittedly been propositioned several times at Hogwarts on the occasions he'd returned for advanced potions classes with the final years. It seemed that the combination of his status as a Professor and war hero was potent fantasy fodder for a few of the young witches—and even some of the older ones. He preferred to keep his work and pleasure separate if it was at all possible—but sometimes it wasn't.

"Why should I mind?" The blonde licked her lips. "I'm willing to . . . share."

Snape flicked the cigarette butt into the air, watching it disappear mid-flight like an exploded firework. Women were such manipulable creatures. Even the so-called strong, independent types . . . they were so easy to tempt. So very easy to entice.

* * *

"That's it, love." His breathy baritone slid out of an open throat, emulating the brunette who was looking to please him by allowing him to slide increasingly deeper into hers. Long lashes fluttering closed against his pale cheeks, he allowed the transcendental quality of it all—drugs, sex, freedom, life—to envelop him. He fucking deserved this. After years of pain and sacrifice, this woman moaning for his seed and the other one he'd plundered with his tongue until she'd passed out were a fitting reward.

The world could judge him how it liked, but he figured he'd given enough. He'd always been a sensualist, an epicurean with tastes that ran well beyond the exotic. Now he was determined to sup on all that had been denied him. He'd gorge himself on anything and everything, until his body was running thick with the debauched juices of Dionysian gratification.

And with that thought he came, pulling from her throat so he could watch his creamy release surging against her tongue. "Drink all of me," he whispered, tunneling his fingers into her hair. "That's a good girl. Take every . . . last . . . drop."

* * *

Hermione woke, wrenched from a particularly intense dream by a harsh, parrot-like screech. Propped on her elbows, blood thrumming in her ears, she listened. Otherworldly noises in the dead of night weren't uncommon—she lived across the street from one of London's seediest pubs after all. But the piercing quality of this one she found particularly unpleasant.

The screech came again, followed by high-pitched laughter. With a loud huff, Hermione allowed her head to thump back into her pillow. Another drunken bimbo—no doubt staggering home after downing a trampy skinful. She blinked around her bedroom with its claustrophobic walls and flashing red light _—_ a constant intrusion from the vacancy sign on the motel next door. It was times like this that she longed for the pitch darkness and heavy silence of Hogwarts. Even the snores of multiple room-mates were preferable to the cacophony of jungle sounds that were now drifting up from the street. _That was definitely a monkey._ _And that growl—a tiger? What in Merlin's name were they doing?_

Flinging her quilt back, Hermione kicked her legs out of her sheets, vaulted off her bed and stormed over to the window. There was never any particular value in extracting herself from her warm bed to glare from afar at some stranger, more often than not staggering along with their heels in one hand, yelling into the wrong end of their phone—it only made her more annoyed. But she just had to discover the source of this particularly excruciating disturbance.

Shoving aside the curtain, she peered down into the street below her flat. Three shadowy figures were romping about in front of the motel. One tall and two short—clearly a male and two females. The male did something that made one of the two squeal, and the second looked like she was trying to hump his leg.

"Get a room," Hermione muttered into the glass.

More inane giggling burst from the cavorting trio and the male appeared to say something but his voice was so low that she couldn't make out more than a deep hum. Hermione sighed impatiently, wishing they would just go inside so she could make at attempt to return to sleep. She had an important report on Augurey migration to deliver in the morning and she was determined that her point about unsustainable practices was clear. She seemed to be the only one in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures who seemed to understand the long-term consequences of changes in the delicate balance of the magical creature ecosystem.

Hermione felt herself tensing, suddenly indignant that the irresponsible behavior of a bunch of selfish idiots should potentially compromise something so important. It was bad enough that people should have so little self-respect that they saw it appropriate to get legless on a weeknight, but to interfere with—

She found her eyes drawn to the tall figure who was moving with a smooth grace that contrasted starkly with the jerky staggering and drunken swaying of his companions. He was clearly far more in control of himself than they were—either he could hold his liquor or he was taking advantage. Either way she was instantly suspicious.

But as she scrutinised his deft movements, Hermione was struck by a strange sense of familiarity. There was something about the curve of his back, the rigid line of his shoulders that made her crane forward until her nose bumped against the cold pane.

As she squinted through the foggy glass, the girl on the man's arm turned, casting him into the milky glow of a street lamp. Hermione gasped. The firm ridge of his prominent nose was her first point of focus, followed by his dark locks—unusually glossy in the murky glow. It was so surreal that all she could do was mouth the word—'Snape?'

But it was his beetle black eyes, glittering eerily as they reflected the red motel sign on their way up to capture hers that suddenly drew a muted shriek from her lips as she ducked to the floor like a naughty first-year caught out of bed.

She was instantly furious. _How dare he!_ _How dare he wake her. How dare he make her feel like a guilty student again. How dare he engage in his sleazy, debaucherous antics here—at her home._ She'd seen enough of it in the papers—she didn't need it to be happening right under her bedroom window.

 _And where was his self-respect?_ She couldn't fathom how any intelligent man—and that's what he was, she couldn't deny it—how a once brilliant man could spend his evening entertaining a couple of squawking bimbos.

Clearly his hero status had gone straight to his head. He may have been caustic and arrogant as her Professor but he'd also been brave—fiercely protecting them on more than one occasion. And here he was now, nothing more than a slave to hedonism, indiscriminately fucking around.

She suddenly had an intense desire to march downstairs and shake him. To grab him by the front of his frock coat in front of those two dim-wits and ask him what in Merlin's name he was doing. But then she wondered why. _Why should she care what happened to him?_ _She had clearly meant almost nothing to him at Hogwarts, so why should he mean anything to her?_ It was his life. He was free to do with it as he wished. She did, after all, appreciate that freedom was a luxury that was in short supply when he lived as a double agent.

Still, that understanding did little to curb her irritation as she squatted uncomfortably on the cold floor. Finally she decided that it was patently unfair that she could be made to feel so uncomfortable in her own home. And so she stood. They were gone, having finally decided to stagger into the motel—no doubt already indulging in some sort of sordid threesome. She shook her head with annoyance.

But then she noticed something, movement—three forms swaying together as they disappeared around the corner of the next block. They'd moved on. They weren't next door. And as she stared after them, it started to rain. The steady patter of drops quickly burnished bronze the rooftops around her. She crossed her arms, hoping with a smidgen of petty revenge that they got wet—saturated actually.

As she returned to her bed, huffing and tutting until she had run out of huffs and tuts, she realised with more than a little uneasiness that she was disappointed that he'd gone—that he wasn't next door. She sighed as she plumped up her pillow. She was just tired—probably delirious. And it was all his fault. Pulling her quilt up to her nose, she screwed her eyes shut against the flashing light. She was determined not to waste another thought on him. He didn't deserve it.


	2. Pervoracity

By the time Hermione blustered through the café door in a hurricane of muttered curses and intractable hair, she was already running late. She'd missed her alarm, slept in, and barely had time to shower before rushing out the door. Mind still churning with annoyance, she was shaken from her thoughts by a cheery voice.

"The usual, Miss Granger?"

Hermione glanced up at the young waiter behind the register. "Oh, yes please, Henry." She flashed him a smile as she rummaged distractedly through her handbag. "I'll have it to takeaway, please—I'm running a little late."

"Of course." He winked affably.

Hermione nodded gratefully before stepping aside to await her order. Delving a second hand into her bag she wished, not for the first time, that she hadn't stuffed half of her worldly possessions in there. Levering out a book, notepad and her phone, she slid her fingers through the rattling assortment of junk realizing, with a sinking feeling, that she'd forgotten her purse.

"Um." She leaned toward the register where waiters were busily working the coffee machine, stacking plates and taking orders. "I'm sorry . . . uh, Henry?" She tried to attract the young waiter's attention.

"I'm afraid . . . " Her voice was drowned out by the steady hum of patrons—diners who had actually managed to get up on time, who probably hadn't been rudely woken in the middle of the night, who hadn't spent hours trying to get back to sleep.

She felt the flush creeping up her throat at the impending embarrassment of having to admit to not being able to pay—it was hardly an ideal way to start such an important day.

When the young waiter finally returned with an insulated cup, paper bag and a grin, she grimaced.

"I'm so sorry, Henry, I seem to have forgotten my purse. Can I pay tomorrow?"

His smile faltered. "Well, we don't usually . . . " He scanned the industrious workers bustling behind him, clearly seeking someone with more authority.

"Look, don't worry I . . . I'm afraid I'll have to leave . . . "

"Put it on this." A black arm suddenly reached over her shoulder, a credit card clamped between two long fingers.

Hermione jerked around to find herself looking into those disconcertingly black eyes for the second time in less than a day. A strangled growl rose in her throat.

"Miss Granger." His baritone jolted her to the core. Although she hadn't been exposed to her Professor's distinctively resonant timbre in over three years, her visceral response was immediate, her entire body tensing as though she were waiting for him to deduct fifty house points for being so pathetically disorganised.

"Professor Snape," she rasped before swallowing with obvious difficulty. "I thank you but that won't be required."

"I'll leave it." She spoke firmly to the waiter, whose eyes shifted uncomfortably between the two of them before returning to the items in his hands.

"The coffee is excellent," Snape informed her, continuing to extend his card as his eyes roved over her face. "You appear to need it."

Hermione's brown eyes flashed. "I know it's excellent," she ground out through gritted teeth. "That's why I drink it every day."

"As you will today." Snape nodded to the young man, who took the card quickly before she could contradict him.

Hermione lifted her chin indignantly. "That wasn't necessary, Professor. I would have worked out another arrangement."

"Indeed," Snape responded before leaning toward her slightly and lowering his voice to a rumble. "A quick hand job out the back should have been enough."

Hermione's mouth dropped open in shock. She bristled—about to blast him with a few choice words of her own—she'd let him know exactly what she thought of his tawdry existence. But then he snorted quietly at her, his lips pulling into a smirk before he snapped his card back into his palm and turned with a flourish, leaving her with nothing more than a view of his retreating form as he disappeared out the door.

She watched after him, seething with unspent fury. _How dare he!_ It was becoming a too common catch phrase but it was all her incredulous mind could manage. _The utter gall of the man!_

"Miss Granger?"

She suddenly softened. He'd changed. It wasn't just his brazen words. The top button of his white shirt sat undone, his dark hair tousled, there was even the ghost of a shadow emerging from his chin. But he wasn't unkempt—just dripping with a casual insouciance that was disconcertingly . . . improper.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione spun around, only just remembering where she was.

"Oh . . . sorry I . . . " She quickly stuffed her belongings back in her bag before claiming her breakfast from the waiter's hands.

Straightening her back, she drew a deep breath. She couldn't afford to allow thoughts of Snape to ruin her day any further.

"Thank you, Henry." She nodded stiffly before tossing her hair in an attempt to salvage a little dignity, and elbowing her way out the door.

* * *

"I don't know why you're getting so worked up." Katie Bell opened the biscuit tin and shook it to see if there were any chocolate ones left down the bottom.

"Because," Hermione continued to pace, only just managing to keep tea from slopping over the sides of her cup, "Parsons said he'd be at my presentation and he didn't show up. So the six weeks of work I put into that report were a complete waste of time. He won't read it—we both know that. And while I understand the necessity to clear thorn bushes—they are a nuisance after all—the Augurey nests within them have not been considered. It's going to create huge problems when the birds migrate back."

Katie picked up a plain looking biscuit, taking a small nibble before making a face and tossing it back into the tin.

"And for some reason nobody around here seems to care!" Hermione lunged forward and snatched the offending biscuit back from the tin before throwing it in the bin.

"They're pretty damn ugly though." Katie returned the lid to the tin before dismissing it with a push.

"What are?"

"Augureys." She took a gulp of tea. "They'd have to be the most miserable looking birds on the planet."

Hermione placed her cup down before planting both hands on the table in front of Katie. "And wouldn't you be miserable too if your home was gradually being eroded—burnt to the ground, sometimes with your own babies inside?"

"I'm just saying." Katie leaned back, trying to avoid the steam that was about to blast out of her friend's ears. "They look bad. And you can't even use their feathers for quills."

Hermione tilted her head as though she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing.

"Are you suggesting that animals are only worth protecting if they're useful to us?"

Katie put up a hand in an attempt to placate her. "I'm just saying that if they were useful, people might care a little more."

Hermione growled in frustration before resuming her pacing.

"And where was Parsons anyway?" she turned to Katie. "You're his P.A. Did he tell you why he couldn't come?"

"He said he had to attend to some last-minute appointments."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Hermione snapped.

Katie drained her tea before standing. "It means that he had something more important to do." She rinsed her cup before placing it on the draining board. "I'm sorry to have to break this to you, my dear, but attending presentations on Augurey migration isn't on the top of everyone's 'to do' list." She grinned before opening the staff room door.

"So tell me what is," Hermione muttered into her cup.

"Sweet Circe," Katie murmured, giving a low whistle. "I think I might have just found it."

Hermione approached, peering over Katie's shoulder. Down the corridor she could see the rotund form of Benedict Parsons. He was showing someone into one of the offices, recently vacated following the end of an investigation into goblin bank fraud. Despite having his back to them, she instantly knew who it was.

"You know who that is, don't you?" Katie glanced over her shoulder.

Hermione couldn't speak.

"Old 'Sexy Pants' himself."

Hermione choked on her tea. Katie had been a year ahead of her at Hogwarts. _Since when had she considered their caustic ass of a Professor to be sexy?_

"Are you deranged?" She finally squeaked.

"Yes." Katie sighed in exasperation. "Myself, and the rest of the female population are deranged. While you, my friend, are the only one who's not."

Hermione felt the world closing in on her. Her comfortable existence—the one that she'd worked bloody hard for—was fracturing and flaking apart. _What in Merlin's name was he doing here? Why was he suddenly permeating every element of her existence?_

"Please tell me he's just visiting," she whispered.

Katie shook her head. "Looks like he got the Dark Beast job."

Hermione closed her eyes.

"Which is absolutely appropriate if you ask me," Katie continued, her voice taking on a gravelly tone. "I can't think of a darker beast than Snape. I might have to 'accidentally' drop something outside his door and show him my G-string—see if I can get him to ravage me."

Hermione felt faint. Katie elbowed her in the ribs.

"Lighten up. At least he's going to add a little spark to this place."

Hermione didn't want a little spark. She didn't want any part of him anywhere near her. He didn't deserve to work here. She'd earned her place through diligence, conscientiousness and a deep-set desire to genuinely improve the conditions for the magical creatures she was responsible for.

Snape was hardly a reliable candidate for the Dark Beast Division role. _How could anyone take him seriously?_ Everyone knew what sort of man he was. Of course his sordid hobbies didn't necessarily make him bad at his job but still—she'd observed him only hours before practically fucking two floozies in the street. And now he was here looking all sharp and proper. It wasn't fair.

"You're not crying, are you?"

"No, I just have . . . allergies."

Hermione turned away. She wasn't lying. She was allergic to Snape. And recent exposure had caused her hypersensitivity to flare up again.

Another wave of unfairness welled inside her. She'd also have to ask to move from her cosy little office now that he was positioned diagonally opposite her. There was a chance that she could even see him if she sat in the wrong place. It couldn't be worse.

"Oh fuck, here he comes," Katie hissed.

There was a pregnant pause in which Hermione did her best to brace herself against his encroaching presence as she squirted washing liquid into her cup.

"Miss Bell, it's a pleasure to see you again."

Hermione didn't turn from the sink, vigorously sloshing water about and trying to drown out his voice which slithered around her, constricting her lungs like a python.

"The pleasure is all mine, Professor," Katie gushed. "Although you're not my professor anymore. What should I call you?"

"Mr Snape will be fine in the workplace." Hermione only just held in a derisive snort. "Out of the workplace, however, you can call me . . . 'sir.'"

Hermione heard Katie's breathy laughter and could just imagine her, shoulders thrown back, thrusting her ample cleavage toward him.

"And if I'm not mistaken . . . that's Miss Granger at the sink." Hermione felt her face instantly ignite. "I must say that I never imagined her in such a role."

She didn't even realise that the cup had broken until a large gash suddenly appeared in the fleshy base of her thumb, rapidly filling with blood which overflowed down her wrist.

"Shit!" she hissed, gripping the wound and turning to find a towel.

"Hermione, what happened?" Katie cried. "There's blood everywhere!"

"I'm . . . I'm fine." Hermione stammered.

"I'll get the first aid kit." Katie rushed out the door.

Before she knew what was happening, Snape had closed the space between them and grasped her small hands between his large ones.

"Vulnera Sanentur," he chanted, low and sonorous. The trickle of blood suddenly halted its passage down her pale arms, slowly reversing its flow before receding at increasing speed back up her forearms.

"Vulnera Sanentur," he repeated. The scarlet ooze threaded up to her wrists before disappearing completely into the shadowy crevice between their hands.

"Vulnera Sanentur." The final incantation emerged from his lips as he gradually released his hold, turning her hand over to show the wound which had completely knitted together.

"You must be more careful . . . Miss Granger."

Hermione was shaking with a mixture of shock and fury.

"Yes. What a tragedy that would have been," she spat. "How would I have survived in the world? That was my hand job hand after all."

" _Miss_ Granger!"

Hermione jerked around to see Benedict Parsons standing in the doorway, jowls twitching in astonishment.

Snape stepped back from her, releasing her hand and politely inclining his head.

"Indeed," he murmured before moving toward the door.

"I believe I'll make a start on that Werewolf investigation, Mr Parsons," he said in a commanding voice as he indicated for the stunned man to precede him into the corridor.

Hermione stared down at her newly healed hand, watching as her nails curled into the smooth flesh. It hadn't even been a day but Snape had already managed to destroy so much of what she valued—her privacy, her sleep, the sanctuary of her local café, the respect of her workmates. She utterly loathed the man. And yet when she prised open her fists, she discovered that both hands were shaking—fluttering like tremulous leaves in the wake of his touch. _How dare he!_


	3. Depravitality

Granger. _Again._ These past days, it seemed he couldn't escape the little swot. _Although not so little any longer._ All grown . . . and in all the _right_ places. His quill twirled around his fingers until he held it like a cigarette. A habit. Whenever he thought about sex, his fingers naturally took him there—unless they were already firmly ensconced in some tight pussy of course.

And was she ever so _flustered_ in his presence—so desperately disapproving. In his experience, the most disapproving ones were the ones who wanted it most. They saw in him a reflection of their own desires, that which they were trying to suppress. Granger was suppressing something—he was sure of it.

The other one however, Miss Bell, was quite the opposite. Like her namesake, chiming out her naked lust openly. She'd barely managed to drag her eyes from his crotch, even when Granger had embarked upon her impressive bleeding performance. He'd do her before the week was out, that was a certainty. _But where? And how?_ Tossing the quill aside, he steepled his index fingers against his bottom lip, leaning back in his chair to give his crotch room to expand.

Bell was the one who'd touched the cursed opal necklace at Hogwarts. Under the influence of the Imperius, she'd been manipulated, tortured, utterly helpless. That incident would have stayed with her—elements would be boiling deep in her subconscious. He could use that. She'd also been a Quidditch Chaser—a position that required considerable leg strength. It was Quidditch's greatest contribution to the wizarding world in his opinion—women with thighs that could crack walnuts, riding cock for their country.

Letting her loose on his dick would be enjoyable—she'd be more than adept. But controlling her, tapping into her fears, holding her in exquisite torment on the edge of orgasm would be sublime. He imagined her begging him with her eyes alone, the rest of her body moving to the silent strains of his wand and cock. Reaching down, he adjusted himself beneath the desk.

Something would need to be done about that. He could simply find a room and knock one out or perhaps he could use it to do a little . . . groundwork.

Snape rose from his desk and threw his robes around his shoulders, purely for concealment purposes. Striding from his office, he started down the corridor. He'd rapidly memorised the location of everyone and everything—a useful hangover from his days as a spy, ensuring that he was always prepared.

 _Get on with your work_. Granger's glare was palpable as he passed. He had a good mind to go back and slam her onto her desk, fucking her until those accusing brown eyes turned vacant. He was immune to judgement, but he wasn't immune to hypocrisy. The self-righteous little chit was more like him than she would ever admit.

He felt her gaze lingering on the open neck of his shirt. She seemed to be particularly disapproving of his casual attire. _Well, my girl, along with freedom comes less restrictive clothing._ The easier to _unencumber_ oneself when needed. _So what if he opened his shirt a bit?_ He could breathe at last. Move with ease at last. _Just. Fucking. Be._ At long last.

As he approached the Bell girl's office, he slowed his pace to a casual stroll—he didn't want to appear desperate.

She was transcribing something, her long dark hair falling in a soft curtain across her cheek.

"I wonder if you could direct me to the archives, Miss . . . Bell?"

She instantly blotted the parchment.

He leaned in, hovering over her as he murmured a wandless incantation, trailing his finger ever so close to hers to correct the mistake.

She looked at him, crotch first, or at least where his crotch would have been if it weren't currently secreted behind his robes, before raking her eyes up to his face.

"The archives?"

He nodded slowly.

"They're down . . . " She faltered at the intensity of his black gaze before rising on shaky legs. "Follow me."

He followed, remaining a step behind so he could watch the tight curves of her buttocks moving under her sheer skirt. G-string. Must be. No panty line. That would mean a slight adjustment to his approach.

They took the old elevator to the basement—bars, non-enclosed. They were exposed as they passed each floor but he still managed to slide his knee behind hers, tracking it up her inner thigh until she gasped and clutched at his thigh with desperate fingers.

By the time they reached the basement, Snape had his hands on her breasts and she was grinding back against his cock.

Turning her to face him, he lifted her easily and carried her out into a shadowy alcove off the basement corridor.

"How do you want it?" he growled in her ear.

"Dirty."

His reputation had clearly preceded him.

"Done," he grunted, grasping her blouse and tearing it open before spinning her around and pushing her against the rough stone wall.

Her breaths escaped her in shuddering gasps as he yanked her skirt up, bunching it around her waist, before hooking his hand under her bra and pulling it upwards so that her breasts were trapped between the wall and the elastic that continued to clamp down on them. It was a deliberate technique—it allowed him greater control.

"I want you loud," he muttered into her jaw as one hand clamped around her nipple, abrading it against the wall, and the other slid down to clutch the front of her G-string, pulling it tight between her labia until it strangled her clit.

"Fuck!" she groaned.

"I don't . . . just . . . fuck," he snarled, his hot breath on her ear. "I take you apart. Piece . . . by . . . piece."

He pinched her nipple until she cried out. "And I don't put everything back. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she gasped, her chest crushed under his weight. "That's what I want."

Snape hooked his hand under one of her knees, lifting it so that it was pinned against the wall, propping her wide. Releasing his cock with a single tug at his buttoned fly, he lined the head up with her dripping slot and thrust in hard.

She tried to scream but it was just a hoarse rasp against the stone as he pulled out fully and rammed home again. Each thrust had her breasts grinding and pelvis rocking against the rough surface, dragging at the G-string which still clamped her clitoris, twisting and abrading it mercilessly.

Suddenly he pushed his middle finger into her mouth and she sucked on it in between gasps, forced out by the relentless pounding of his cock. And just when she thought he couldn't possibly do any more to her, he shifted position so that his cock was thrusting in at an angle and she felt his wet finger at the tight constriction of her backside.

"Tell me when," he muttered.

"When," she moaned, and his finger surged into her as the same time as his teeth sank into her neck.

This time she screamed. And didn't stop.

He heaved into her, slamming her against the wall, his cock and finger fully impaling her openings, both thrusting with mounting speed until she came spectacularly, practically climbing the wall as the orgasm ripped through her. He curled his finger inside her rectum, prolonging the convulsive shudders so that his cock could reach completion. Hissing, he drove into her pussy, letting her spasms naturally milk the streams of seed from him. The sensation of filling her with come as he held her trapped against the wall felt powerful, and he grunted with satisfaction as he deposited the last squirt into her. When he finally removed his cock and finger, she fell back limp into his arms.

 _Had she fainted?_ No—it seemed she'd simply lost tone with the fullness of her release. She lay both boneless and speechless as he rippled his fingers over her, gently healing her abrasions and repairing her clothing.

By the time he'd finished, she was the same as previous—except different. Her eyes were dazed and her pupils dilated, so much so that she had the appearance of being drugged.

"I . . . I needed that," she whispered.

"Perhaps we can arrange a repeat . . . performance," he replied, the silkiness returning to his voice.

"When?" She was suddenly animated, looking up at him pleadingly.

He chuckled as he cupped her cheek. He loved watching them beg. And she'd taken it so well—she was clearly used to rough play after her committed efforts on the Quidditch pitch. His future plans for her were looking more and more promising—indeed most aspects of this new job were suiting him very well indeed. But the reality was, when it came to sex, he never liked to commit—he much preferred spontaneity. And attachment could also be a problem. So he chose to ignore her question, instead pressing home with his own.

"Tell me about Miss Granger . . . "

* * *

That evening sleep eluded him—he lay framed in moonlight, mind racing. Restless. When it came like this—the burn—there was only one escape. Only one comfort that cut deeply enough.

In minutes he'd dressed and was sliding through the night, no more than a shadow—Apparating to an underground establishment well known to those in the potions community. Perhaps 150 years ago, such holes of depravity would be called Opium Dens. Today they had no name. Just darkened, windowless rooms permeated with drifts of pungent smoke, where regulars went to lose themselves in dangerous and powerful substances.

His particular establishment of choice was utterly exclusive. Overstuffed red velvet, dark marble and beaten gold provided an opulence matched only by the quality of flesh reclining within. And the choice of poison was vast—limited only by the galleons lining one's pocket.

Severus's shuttered gaze tunnelled into the smoky recesses of the room. Time slowed to a crawl. Every sense was sharpened, intensified—hues emboldened, scents textured, and sounds striking viscerally. The deep throb of bass notes pulsed through him, rhythmically, insistently, thrusting from his swollen heart down to his thickening cock. He was awash with the juices of his indulgence, marinating in them, his tenderised flesh finally carved and resting. Supremely relaxed, almost indolent, he felt his lungs expanding and contracting slowly and deeply—fully aware of every detail of his surroundings.

Then a singular thought crystallised in his mind. _Which of the women here tonight will be his play thing?_ _Who will match his insatiable appetite—stroke for stroke, thrust for thrust?_ _Who will have the endurance—and imagination—to perform with him in one of his dark fantasies?_

He nodded to the owner of the establishment, a short, bald man of little expression—a devious Squib who catered to the magical world for profits' sake alone. The squib knew what that nod meant. Bring him a woman—someone young and beautiful, and wasted enough to be fully compliant.

In the private back room, Severus began to undress as he waited impatiently. Then he decided, ' _What the fuck_ ', removing all his clothes and settling on the bed. It wasn't as though he would be politely courting the girl. He'd be getting down to business as soon as she arrived. After all, it was now expected of him, this debauchery, this debasement.

More than three hours later, he was still immersed in her; the chemicals he'd abused earlier still at work, gifting him a lingering sense of potency.

 _So why, then, were thoughts and images of someone else, another woman, weaving themselves between his carnal activities?_ The girl beneath him was fit enough, and indeed expressive enough. He tried to push away the memory—caramel eyes looking up to him, wanting to trust him as he chanted, her hands clasped within his.

No, Severus, _attend to the girl at hand_. She's yours for the evening. _Enjoy her. Fully._


	4. Raunchivious

_It didn't add up_. Hermione trailed a finger down the ledger of the field report. The numbers suggested that winged creatures were on the decline and yet, apart from the Augureys, there were no current known threats to their populations. Predator numbers hadn't increased—at least, nothing had come through from any of the other Magical Creature divisions. And human intervention was being monitored more closely now than ever before—she'd made sure of it.

Chewing her lip, she pivoted back and forth, her office chair whining with the effort. She wasn't comfortable with the anomaly. It couldn't be explained by seasonal fluctuations alone—something else must be going on. Tossing her quill aside, she pushed back from her desk—it was about time she accosted Benedict Parsons and forced him to finally listen to her. While he often stopped by to brace his corpulent backside against Snape's door frame, communicating in annoyingly loud chortles, she apparently needed to make an appointment if she wanted to discuss anything with him.

 _Boy's club_. It wasn't as though Snape didn't receive enough attention already. He garnered more foot traffic than the Crown Jewels—usually women slowing down to ogle him on their way to attending to 'urgent business.' It was properly annoying for her, but she suspected that his colossal ego loved it.

She personally didn't understand what all the fuss was about. She'd had seven years of the git and his constant rancorous belittlement of her friends. He'd also personally insulted her on more than one occasion. While he hadn't said anything overtly nasty to her in the workplace, she remained extremely wary.

She didn't trust him anymore. It was a telling admission as it suggested she'd trusted him in the past. Even as a double agent, a spy, she found that she'd come to trust him. _But now?_ Now his whole life seemed to run on some self-serving agenda under the guise of casual indifference. She didn't buy it. And, frankly, she had no interest in pulling back the layers to see what was flopping about underneath. She suspected all she'd find was more conceited self-indulgence. Anyone could orchestrate their existence around servicing their own needs. It took a special person to sacrifice themselves for others.

And that's what he had done. For years. _Merlin!_ Just when she managed to talk herself into a state of comfortable conviction about him, her contrary mind decided to turn up some exception. In reality, it was better for her not to consider him at all. But even as she thought it, her eyes automatically slid to the office window beyond her door. Ignoring him was turning out to be far more easily said than done as enigmatic slices of him continued to flicker through the cracks in his blinds.

He was more restless than she'd expected. At Hogwarts he had made an art of stillness. And of moving like the Hogwarts Express—vacillating between the two with disconcerting regularity. Now he was rarely still. For someone who walked with his crotch as a distinct anchor point, a practiced nonchalance to his visage, he sure was fidgety. Maybe it was the cigarettes. _Since when had he smoked?_ She'd observed him leaning over one of the miserly Ministry balconies, smoke being sucked from his lips by the wind. Perhaps he'd been a smoker all his life and now, like everything else, he just didn't feel the need to hide the fact.

With a sigh, she stood. There were more pressing matters to deal with than wondering why her former professor had taken up the 'cancer sticks,' as her father used to call them. She needed to see Parsons—sooner rather than later.

"Ding-dong," Hermione whispered.

She had been standing unnoticed in Katie Bell's office for long enough to wonder if her friend had fallen under the influence of a Stasis charm.

Katie jerked from her vacant reverie, her face melting into an embarrassed smile.

"Sorry . . . " She ran her hand distractedly through her hair as she scanned the pile of parchment in front of her. "I don't know where I was."

Hermione frowned. She'd noticed that Katie didn't seem to be quite herself lately. Perhaps she wasn't sleeping again. In the past, they'd confided in one another about the lingering effects of the war and Katie's nightmares about the cursed necklace. It had been some time since they'd discussed such things. Maybe it was time for another debrief.

"I was hoping you could find a time for me to meet with Parsons?" Hermione said, flipping open her diary.

"Sure." Katie selected one of the books neatly arranged on a shelf nearby.

"Miss Bell—"

Katie dropped the book and swung around at the same time as Hermione did to see Snape standing in the doorway.

"Apologies . . . " He inclined his head before clasping his hands in front of him. "This can wait."

Katie continued to stare at him.

"Parsons?" Hermione prompted her.

"Oh yes, I was . . . " Katie retrieved the book from the ground and placed it on her desk, her eyes flickering to the doorway again before she opened and scanned the pages.

Hermione turned to look at Snape, who raised an eyebrow in response. They'd only exchanged the odd word since he'd started. Even though she saw him regularly in her local café and at work, there didn't seem to be a lot to say. Which was why she was surprised when he spoke to her.

"Perhaps you and I should catch up at some point, Miss Granger?"

"Mr Parsons is free on Tuesday at 10am," Katie interrupted.

Hermione turned to her. "Oh, um . . . let me just check . . . yes that looks fine."

"How long do you need?" Katie's tone was unusually sharp and Hermione noticed her glance at Snape before lowering her eyes back to the book.

"Just half an hour should be sufficient."

"Fine." Katie forced a smile but Hermione could see that she was flushed and breathing unusually heavily.

Nonplussed, Hermione delivered her stilted, 'Thanks' before turning to leave.

"I believe there is some overlap between our current investigations," Snape said, not moving from the doorway.

"I doubt it," Hermione replied. "From what I know of the Dark Beast investigation, it constitutes little more than a few questionable rumours and some missing sheep."

She hadn't meant to sound so haughty. He just seemed to naturally bring it out in her.

Snape appeared unfazed but his black eyes were sharp. "You'll have noticed a decline in flying creature numbers. I believe there may be an explanation."

Hermione stared at him. _Why had she forgotten this about him?_ She'd always known him to be meticulous and exceedingly intelligent. And clearly he'd lost none of that. She realised then that she'd be much better served regarding him an ally, than an enemy.

"Maybe we do have something to discuss," she agreed.

Suddenly Katie leapt up from her desk and moved between them. "Excuse me. I just have to go and . . . "

She pushed past Snape in the doorway, rubbing her front gratuitously against his.

And then the penny dropped. _How had she been so dense?_ Of course Snape hadn't wasted any time in getting to know his work colleagues.

"I'm a bit busy at the moment," Hermione snapped, swiveling away from him and curling her body around the doorframe to avoid touching his groin before striding away, huffing in irritation.

 _How dare he!_ Thank Merlin she was having lunch with Ginny. This place was driving her insane.

* * *

"A break?" Hermione stared at the auburn-haired girl incredulously, a salad leaf hanging from the corner of her mouth. "I thought you two were getting along better than ever?"

Ginny sighed, taking a sip of wine. "I just need some time to work out what I want. So does Harry."

"What you want?" Hermione's voice hadn't dropped any lower.

"Stop repeating everything I say," Ginny murmured, her eyes darting around the tiny restaurant.

"But Gin." Hermione tried to lower her voice but ended up hissing instead. "Most people would give anything to have what you have."

"Who would?" Ginny looked at her pointedly.

Hermione chewed uncomfortably before snatching up her own wine glass and downing the rest.

"I just don't understand what could be so bad that you'd need to take a 'break'."

Ginny shook her fringe out of her eyes. "It's just that we're not that . . . compatible . . . in some things."

"Like?"

"Sex."

Hermione made a face. "It's over-rated."

"How would you know?" Ginny instantly regretted her words. "I'm sorry 'Mione . . . I didn't mean . . ."

"Another one of these, please." Hermione waggled her glass to the waitress as she passed.

"Make that two," Ginny nodded.

"I'm really sorry." Ginny grasped her best friend's hand. "I just need to be able to tell you these things without you freaking out or dismissing them."

"What 'things'." Hermione's brow was still drawn into a disapproving frown.

"Sex," Ginny repeated in exasperation. "It's important to me. And I want to be able to try new things—to experiment. I want someone who is willing to go there with me."

"And you'd be willing to risk losing someone who is committed to you, who wants to marry you, over some dirty fling?"

Hermione sat back as the waitress approached with their drinks.

"I didn't think you'd understand," Ginny sighed. "Anyway, tell me about your work."

Hermione felt bad. She wanted to be more supportive but it seemed like the world had gone sex crazy. It was like there was one giant sex party and she wasn't invited. It was selfish but she didn't want to know what was happening in other people's sex lives. Not when hers was a desolate wasteland—rolling tumbleweeds and all.

"I can't ever remember you asking about my job before, Gin. You must be really annoyed at me." Hermione ventured a small smile.

Ginny's lips finally curved into a grin.

"Well, actually, I'd heard that a certain former potions master is employed there now. How are you two getting along?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Not as well as he is with the rest of the female population. I have a feeling he's fucked the vast majority of the women there already."

"Well what are you waiting for?" Ginny squeezed her hand encouragingly. "Wouldn't you love to find out if all the gossip about him is true? That he has a huge . . . amount of stamina."

Hermione laughed despite herself. "I'm not interested in his stamina. He's hardly discriminating in his choices. I'd just be another notch on his belt."

"I'd be happy with that," murmured Ginny. "As long as he whipped me with it afterwards."

"Ginny!" Hermione cried, spilling her drink down her front.

* * *

Hermione was feeling decidedly tipsy when she returned to work. She never normally drank that much over lunch but she'd needed it—a blurry buffer against the tension she felt pulsing like an electric current through the work environment. Collapsing into her chair, she realised that the data analysis she'd planned for the afternoon was going to have to wait. She'd have to do something that required a little less brain power—like sorting through the claims of abuse and inappropriate dealings from magical animal activists.

She'd just extracted the pile of parchments from a file when the first scream rang through the building. It was so unexpected that she mistook it for laughter. Then the second sounded—absolutely blood-curdling and when the shout, "Troll!" followed, all hell broke loose.

A shrieking stampede of bodies jostled past from the direction of the central atrium of the Ministry. Hermione leapt up, craning her head out the door to find the corridor filled with a sea of terrified faces. Then she noticed a singular form moving in the opposite direction—dark hair, white shirt—Snape, wand in hand, forging toward the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass. Only a minute or two later, the corridor was completely empty, everyone having escaped through the exits or seeking refuge in their offices.

The only person visible was Snape, standing on the mezzanine floor overlooking the atrium. His legs were braced apart, his wand arm extended—perfectly balanced. Hermione's fuzzy mind instantly transported her back to the time that he'd destroyed Lockhart at Hogwarts. But this time he wasn't facing a lightweight. Far from it. When the troll's ugly bald head appeared over the mezzanine, Hermoine gasped. It was huge—far bigger than the one she'd faced with Harry and Ron in her first year. In fact, it was so enormous that it easily looked down upon Snape, despite standing on the floor below. And when Snape started to fire off a series of combat spells, they simply ricocheted off its tough skin like fireworks before it brought its club down in a bone-shattering explosion of masonry that took out the balustrade.

Snape only just stepped back in time to avoid the blow but he advanced just as quickly, casting increasingly more complex spells, his arms circling and lunging. The blows landed with greater effect, the troll recoiling further with each direct hit to its lumpy head before it gained a second wind fueled by fury. This time it didn't come at Snape with its club, instead it lashed out with surprising speed, its mottled green fist closing around him. Hermione stumbled down the corridor, unsure of what she could possibly contribute but unable to stand by and watch Snape being crushed to death. Suddenly the troll shouted, a low, doleful bellow before it pulled its hand away. Snape's arm was hanging limply at his side and his shirt and been torn but he continued to cast spell after spell, forcing the troll back with increasingly severe attacks.

"Don't kill it. Don't kill it," Hermione muttered into her cupped hands. She hated to see any creature die, no matter how terrifying it was.

Suddenly Snape curled his wand in an intricate pattern above his head and a network of sinuous cords emerged out of thin air, entangling the giant creature's arms and drawing them into its body. A second series twisted around its legs, pulling them together until, with a roar, it toppled to the marble floor with an earth-shattering crash that shook the entire building. As a cloud of dust rose, hanging like fog on the air, the entire place fell into an eerie silence.

Hermione ran. She arrived at Snape's side to find his shirt torn and bloody, shoulder obviously dislocated and wand toppling from his fingers.

Kneeling down to retrieve it, she looked up at his bloody but surprisingly muscular torso. "How can I help you?" she asked, her voice choked with anguish.

He peered down at her, face glazed with sweat, slightly dazed. "Well, Miss Granger, while you're down there . . . "


	5. Degenerandy

A hushed thrum of voices greeted Hermione as she finally slipped into the meeting room. All of the Magical Creature division heads were there—everyone with the exception of Snape. Hermione had escorted him down to the Ministry entrance via the atrium, passing the prone form of the troll, knocked out cold but still breathing in wet snorts through a broken nose. Security guards had been lumbering about dopily, trying to work out how to move the troll's enormous bulk to one of the large halls for questioning. _Where were they when Snape was fighting the creature single-handedly?_ Cowering in their offices, no doubt.

Hermione still had her hand on Snape's good arm, determined to be there when the ambulance arrived to take him to St Mungo's. The sight of him putting himself in harm's way had instantly transported her back to that horrific moment in the Shrieking Shack. He hadn't died then either but he'd been left alone and she was absolutely determined that she wouldn't let it happen again. It was one of her worst memories of the war and one she rarely examined if she could help it. But she realized then that if she had, she might have been more understanding of his current life choices. On a more positive note, she'd already forgiven him for the 'while you're down there' quip. After all, he'd just been through an intensely traumatic ordeal. The 'quick handjob' one still annoyed her but perhaps she would find it within herself to let that one go too.

She helped him to a seat near the entrance, careful to avoid the arm that hung like a broken branch from his dislocated shoulder. The confrontation had certainly shaken him—perhaps more than she'd initially realised. He was trembling despite the sheen of sweat that covered him—most likely a combination of pain and shock. And although she cast several warming incantations, he continued to shake uncontrollably. It seemed that the spell he'd cast to blast away the troll's hand had inflicted many of the ragged wounds on his arm and torso, which continued to ooze with fresh blood.

Summoning a glass of water, she crouched to assist him to drink it. As she held it to his shuddering lips, he placed his good hand upon hers, knuckles crusted with blood.

"I hoped you'd come back," he rasped after attempting to take a mouthful but spilling most down his chin.

He squinted, black eyes trying to focus on her before his face went slack, milky lids falling closed. He was deteriorating.

Hermione scanned the entrance doors. "How far away is it?" she shouted to the guard on duty.

"Two minutes."

"Professor . . . Severus." She shook him gently. "The ambulance isn't far away."

He didn't open his eyes.

"Severus." She leaned in and spoke louder. "Open your eyes."

No response.

"Come on," she ground out. "Stay with me." She placed a hand against his pale cheek.

His eyes blinked open and a dazed smile curved his lips.

"How could I refuse . . . such an offer," he slurred. "Of course I'll . . . stay . . . Lily . . . "

He fell unconscious.

"Where's that fucking ambulance!" Hermione cried, jumping up and jogging toward the entrance.

She could see it squeezing through traffic.

"Don't let him die . . . Don't let him die," she muttered as she paced frantically. Strange illusions of the Shrieking Shack flashed up in the corners of her vision, merging and melding with her surroundings.

It wasn't the first time this had happened. When her emotions became overwhelming, the world would sometimes warp, her memories melding with reality until she had difficulty separating them.

She returned to Snape's side.

"You're going to be alright," she whispered to him, her voice strained. "I'm going to make sure of it . . . this time I'm going to make sure."

After that, the ambulance officers had arrived and wheeled him away. The vision of him strapped down, damp hair clinging to his face, lips parted around shallow breaths, still commanded her thoughts as she attempted to rub the dried blood from her palms, leaning against the wall of the meeting room in a state of utter exhaustion.

Benedict Parsons stood up the front, his puffy face solemn while questions were thrown at him.

"Surely this is part of the Dark Beast uprising? The troll was sent as a warning!" Mick McLeod from the Spirit Division spoke up.

"Now, now, let's not jump to conclusions." Parsons raised his palms in an attempt at placation. "We must look at all of the evidence available to us. No doubt, more will come to light in the coming days."

Hermione couldn't help feeling cynical about what conclusions would be drawn from the breach. In reality, the troll was a test of his security measures and he'd failed. Any investigation would, no doubt, be looking to cover his ample arse as quickly and convincingly as possible.

"We were warned that this type of thing might happen." Bertha Waddell, a no-nonsense woman in charge of the Entomology division, pointed a finger at him. "When the threats came in, what measures did you take to protect us?"

"I took a very effective measure as I'm sure you will all agree." Parsons gave a smug jowly grin as he swept his gaze around the group.

A burst of muttering ensued before someone finally piped up. "And what was that?"

"I employed Severus Snape!" Parsons attempted to cross his stubby arms in satisfaction, but his girth wouldn't allow sufficient overlap for it to be effective.

There were a few more muttered comments but no one could disagree that it had been effective. Without Snape, there was no knowing how much damage the troll might have done.

But Hermione was incensed.

"And what measures, may I ask, did you take to protect Snape?"

All eyes turned to her and Parsons' mouth clamped shut in disapproval.

"Miss Granger." His voice took on a patronizing tone. "Severus Snape is an extremely powerful wizard, as I'm sure you would have beheld this afternoon. He's hardly someone who needs a body guard."

"And yet he may be fortunate to survive the ordeal," Hermione replied, pushing herself from the wall.

"If anyone had cared to ask after him, you might have known that he was very badly injured. I hope you won't look quite as smug if he doesn't make it, Mr Parsons," she snapped before storming out the door.

Hermione wasn't stupid. She knew that making an enemy of the Head of Department could spell an end to her employment, as well as making further employment difficult. But she was satisfied that, if this was the end, she would leave with her integrity intact. She was committed to the defense of all creatures who were not able to defend themselves. And at that moment, Snape was not present or able. He was also as much a creature in need as anything else she represented.

She was unsure of how Snape might have responded if he _had_ been present but she was quite certain that he hadn't taken the Dark Beast job knowing he would be required to put himself in danger to defend the Ministry. And the idea of Parsons taking credit for Snape's actions was as disgusting as it was infuriating.

Snape might be a vulgar, lecherous, degenerate who fucked around indiscriminately and probably abused illicit substances. But his hero status was legitimate. He was brave. She inhaled deeply as she strode down the corridor to her office, glancing at his empty one on the way past. That was something that no one could deny. He'd always been fucking brave.

* * *

Snape didn't die. In fact, only a week later he was back in his office, the same as previous except sporting a sling. And if she'd thought the attention he'd received earlier was nauseating, the troll incident, plus the sling sympathy, had catapulted him to super-hero status. He was the talk of the tea room, and any other nook and cranny that gossipers decided to occupy. Even Ginny had asked how his recovery was progressing—on multiple occasions.

Surprisingly, however, he didn't seem to be reveling in the heightened attention, often quietly closing his door and leaving it shut for long periods.

Occasional visitors would be received. One particularly frequent caller was Katie Bell who, most of the time, pretended that she was unaware of Hermione's keen eyes upon her as she slipped through the door. The blinds were no longer cracked open so Hermione could only imagine what might be going on behind them. He was slightly incapacitated of course, but Katie's ravenous gaze whenever Hermione saw the two in the vicinity of one another, told her that the drooling woman would be more than willing to do all the work.

It was such a distraction that Hermione began closing her own door so that she didn't have to imagine what was happening behind his.

Then there was the fact that he seemed to remember nothing of what had occurred after the troll incident. He'd not mentioned it to her and so she'd not brought it up. _What was there to say? Did she want him to know that she'd been worried about him? That she'd spoken up for him? Did she expect his thanks?_

It was none of those things—not specifically. It was more the blatant hypocrisy that frustrated her. All of these well-wishers and sympathy-shaggers— _Where were they when his life was in danger? Where were they when he was injured and trembling, reaching desperately for a helping hand?_

He'd incline his head to her each morning and rumble, 'Miss Granger' before disappearing for hours at a time. And each day she became more and more agitated by his polite acknowledgement. One morning she inexplicably found herself wanting to shout at him, 'I cared about you! You thought I was Lily Potter, but I still fucking cared!"

* * *

It was three weeks later, when Hermione discovered blood on her favourite blouse, that she realized she'd not washed it. The afternoon of the troll invasion, she'd thrown it onto a chair in her bedroom, unwilling to deal with it. Now she looked at the bloody fingerprints wrapped around her sleeve, his hand grasping hers for stability— _for comfort?_ She wished she could let it go. The incident was well and truly in the past but it still felt unfinished and so she tossed the blouse back down in a crumpled heap. It would never be her favourite again.

And that's when she saw her. Across the street, red hair tossed about by the breeze as she pulled open the heavy pub door.

"Ginny?"

Ginny had visited her multiple times in her flat but, as far as she knew, she didn't have any other reason to visit this part of London. And now she was entering a seedy pub. Alone. _Perhaps she was buying a bottle of wine to bring over for an impromptu girly gossip session?_

Hermione stared out the window for long enough to realise that a girly gossip session was unlikely to be on the agenda. _So why was she—?_

 _Snape._

He was striding casually up the street. The sling had been gone for a week or so now and both arms were swinging loosely by his side as he approached all in black—trousers and shirt—definitely not work clothing.

Hermione's stomach dropped. It couldn't be a coincidence. Snape had moved into some sort of dwelling two streets away, or so she'd been informed in one of the tea room gossip sessions, so it wasn't surprising that she often ran into him, reading the paper and drinking coffee, in her local café. She'd also spied him entering and leaving the pub on a couple of occasions, but not since the troll incident.

And now here he was, easily pulling open the pub door and disappearing inside. _Could it be a coincidence?_ Hermione chewed her bottom lip as she rested her hands on the windowsill. She knew that she would stand there, just like that, watching until one or both of them emerged. But the reality was that that moment could be many hours away—especially if they . . .

 _It was probably a coincidence_. Her over-active imagination was adding two and two together and making five. She'd go over there and find Ginny chatting and laughing with one of her friends. _Or maybe she was meeting up with Harry?_ Hermione wasn't sure exactly where he'd gone when he moved out but it might be close by. _Yes—that was it, a reconciliatory drink and maybe a little something else?_

Hermione relaxed. She felt much better about that explanation. _After all, how would Ginny have even made contact with Snape? It's not like they would have met in a night club or something. Would they?_ The uncomfortable lump crawled back into her stomach. There was nothing else for it. Thoughts of them would be roiling about in her mind all evening until she knew. She'd just have to go over and find out.

After waiting a few more minutes, Hermione cast a disillusionment spell upon herself, and left her flat for the pub. As she crept into the crowded establishment, she quickly glanced around the room and grimaced. It must be 'singles night', she decided, judging by the predatory expressions on the faces of the men, and many of the women, lounging and prowling about the smoky room.

Finally, she caught a glimpse of red hair on the far side of the bar. And immediately felt ill. Hermione didn't take any comfort in being right. Not this time. There, in a darkened corner sat Ginny, head thrown back in laughter, Snape smirking opposite holding a cigarette coolly between his fingers. As she watched, Ginny leaned forward and spoke into his ear. His fingertips casually grazed the top of her head as she spoke, the other seeking out a glass of what appeared to be straight liquor before bringing it to his lips for a deep swig.

When Ginny withdrew to look at him, he nodded and muttered something. It seemed to be the signal she'd been waiting for as she slithered closer. Smiling, she spoke again and he brought the cigarette to her lips for a drag. _Since when had Ginny smoked?_ It was a stupid question really, as since when did she meet up with former professors while her loving ex-fiancée waited for her to 'find herself'.

The red head seemed to be drifting closer and closer to his semi-recumbent form with each passing moment—as though he were magnetic and she metallic. It was so inexorable that Hermione almost missed the point at which Ginny's hand slithered onto the black fabric of his chest, fingering his collar. His legs eased apart with the movement and Hermione inhaled deeply.

She couldn't watch but, equally, she couldn't tear her eyes away. When Ginny's fingers trailed down the front of his shirt, she automatically knew their destination but, again, she was powerless to drag herself away. Watching Ginny's pale digits slinking seductively down his smooth blackness, Hermione held her breath. They skimmed down beyond his shirt, over his fly, to curl around his crotch. Hermione grunted, swallowing down the cry of 'Ginny!' that desperately wanted to burst from her throat.

Ginny was a good friend. They'd been close for years. But she'd never seen this side of her—never witnessed her gratuitously groping someone, not even Harry. And for the current gropee to be their former professor and the grope location to be the smoky corner of some seedy pub. _It was so sordid!_ _How could she?_ But, then again, perhaps this was the perfect environment to live out whatever debauched fantasies she had dreamed up.

And then they were kissing—snogging actually. And she was definitely the aggressor, leaning over him, delving her tongue into his mouth as her hand continued to caress his crotch.

He was hardly complaining. With a flick he dismissed the cigarette, freeing up his own hand to grope her in return. Hermione watched as Snape's long fingers burrowed into the flesh of Ginny's buttocks through her sheer dress. _Were they planning to fuck right here?_ Hermione scanned the room. It seemed that the writhing couple in the corner weren't the only ones getting amorous.

She also hated that she'd considered them a couple. It wasn't the case—Severus was simply a horny bastard and Ginny an opportunist. And amorous was clearly a euphemism for their current antics—dry fucking would be closer to the mark. Hermione cringed as she watched Ginny sliding around on Snape's lap. They actually suited each other. Ginny had admitted she wasn't looking for 'Mr Right'—just 'Mr Right Now'. And Snape fitted that title perfectly. He was clearly living for the moment. But, Hermione wondered, would he be trying for something more? She hoped not—for Harry's sake.

Just as she was debating whether or not to leave them to their fervent antics, Severus clamped a hand around Ginny's jaw and muttered something in her ear. Hermione hoped he was confessing that he'd made a mistake; perhaps he was asking her, 'but what about Potter?'

She snorted— _hardly likely_. With a sinking heart, she watched Ginny's lips curl into a smile before she nodded and reached for his hand. In seconds they were up and he was leading her through the smoky haze to the stairs. Hermione knew there were private rooms up there for rent ('hot sheets' they called them—rented by the hour). It seemed like this evening was just getting started for them—no doubt they were looking to heat up more than just a set of soiled sheets.

As before, Hermione was torn. It was one thing to spy on her friend as she devoured their former professor's face. It was quite another to follow and witness her devouring Merlin-knows-what else. But Hermione's disillusionment charm was strong enough to hold for a while longer. It was a feeble deciding point but she wouldn't admit to anything more beyond a degree of morbid curiosity.

Casting a silencing spell just to make sure, Hermione crept up the stale carpet of the stairs, releasing the sticky bannister at the top when she spied four doors—three ajar, one closed.

The closed door was to her left. Side-stepping once, twice, she found herself trembling slightly in front of it. There was no discernible noise but both could be screaming blue murder and the constant roar drifting up from downstairs would easily drown it out. Taking a deep breath, squashing down the guilt in her chest, she knelt and levelled her eye to the keyhole.

For some reason she'd expected them to be rolling around on the bed, a mess of black and red hair thrashing about in the throes of passion. But what she saw was very different. They were still—Ginny standing sideways facing the wall, Snape behind her, slowly pulling down the zipper on her dress. When he reached the bottom, just above her buttocks, rather than pushing her dress off her shoulders, both of his hands smoothly slipped into the gap and slithered around her waist beneath her dress. Ginny's eyes widened as if she hadn't expected that either.

Then one of his hands slid downward. Hermione could see it rippling under the soft blue fabric, forging lower and lower as he pressed his body against her. And when Ginny's mouth fell open, the gradual sinuous movement of his fingers evident at her pussy, Hermione found that she, too, was holding her breath. Continuing to caress her, his other hand snaked upward, the cup over one breast ballooning as his fingers enveloped it.

Ginny suddenly gasped with his flicker over her nipple and Hermione suspected that he'd just squeezed it. Then he leaned forward and his lips were on her neck, planting kisses that looked so incredibly soft and sensuous that Hermione heard herself sigh before she could stop it.

His tongue flicked out to lick under Ginny's jaw as a smirk curled his lips.

"Will you be joining us, Miss Granger?"


	6. Profligentious

A muffled shriek and frantic scrabbling sounded outside the door before hurried footsteps thudded away.

"Did you actually mean for her to join us?" The girl in his arms leaned back, tilting her head to look up at him.

He pinched her nipple hard and she cried out. She was there to be fucked and that was all. His intentions were his own. She'd do well to remember that.

"I thought she was a friend of yours," he muttered, continuing to slide his digit down between her pussy lips.

"Mmmm," the redhead moaned. "She is. I should . . . I should go and see her."

He halted his movements.

"When we've finished here," she continued before placing her hand over his, grinding it into her pussy as she thrust against him.

She was extremely insistent, almost desperate. Not at all what he'd imagined. He wondered how Potter had managed to fuck things up so much. She was up for just about anything as far as he could tell. Potter would only need to let her have her own way now and again—let her explore her fantasies and fetishes without judgement. Clearly being the 'chosen one' didn't extend to the bedroom.

"Will you fuck me now?" she asked, her voice reduced to a breathy whine.

She was absolutely cock focused. He could let her have what she wanted—what she'd clearly come here for. Or he could expand her horizons. Once she was exposed to such things, it would increase her dissatisfaction with Potter even further—she'd unlikely go back for more of his 'missionary magic.'

He cared little for their relationship but he suddenly found himself feeling inexplicably drained. His body hadn't fully recovered from the injuries it had incurred—although he had managed to keep up his steady regime of sex throughout his recovery. One particular nurse at St Mungo's had proven to be superbly skilled at 'oral therapy.' And then there was Miss Bell whose impressive thighs had ridden him to completion in his office chair almost on a daily basis.

So it wasn't that he was off sex. It's just that his enthusiasm had waned with the departure of their less-than-adept, Peeping Tom. He'd seen right through Granger's disillusionment from the outset and had enjoyed indulging in a little show for her benefit. He now wished he hadn't called her out. The thought of her watching him fuck the Weasley girl made him hard. She was so disapproving and yet so desperately wanting—whether she was aware of it or not.

Still, if he hadn't been so convinced that she was in denial, he could easily believe that she hated him. The deep scowl that greeted him each morning would be enough to wither a lesser man. However, he'd met with enough disapproval in his lifetime to be all but immune. And it certainly wasn't as though he was in need of attention. He received plenty. Whenever he wanted it.

But he was still struggling with the redhead who had twisted in his arms and was now looking up at him, perplexed. He'd never considered her as anything more than the youngest of the intolerable Weasley clan, or the girl with the unenviable job of stroking Potter's ego for the rest of his life. But she'd pursued him aggressively enough for him to be interested. She was certainly his play-type—responsive, pliable—young enough to have the stamina to endure what he had to offer. And open to anything.

But right now there was only one thing he wanted to do to her.

"Turn around," he ordered.

She had the Gryffindor defiance—that rebellious glint in her brown eyes that a certain other Gryffindor possessed in spades. Granger's was pathological. This one's was only self-serving. She'd do as she was told.

"I find you sexy. I'd like to be able to watch you," she murmured huskily, her hands reaching out to trail down his abdomen.

"I said . . . turn . . . around."

With a sigh, she turned. Reaching out, he grasped the straps of her dress and pulled them down roughly before flicking off her bra and throwing it aside. She was too self-assured. She'd be far more responsive with a little fear pumping through her veins.

"Knickers off. On the bed. All fours." He dealt each command with classroom authority. She'd already revealed those fantasies to him; his words alone would be making her wet.

She slithered her knickers down before assuming her position on the bed. He stood over her, taking in the view of her slim, pale body and red hair. That's what he wanted right now. Not her face. It wouldn't work if he saw her face.

Inhaling deeply he let his hand drop down to his cock, gripping its solid contours through his trousers as he let his imagination take hold. And when he was set, he pulled his fly open, releasing the velvety warmth into his palm. Stroking it, he reflected upon the time when his hand had been the only comfort available to him. And now there was all this, young nubile women clamouring to get a piece of him. He needed to remind himself of that—of how far he had come. He didn't flatter himself that any of them loved him. But he preferred it that way. He didn't have to pretend to love them back.

"I am very displeased with you," he growled, letting his words simmer between them as he watched her buttocks twitch.

"Your antics have disgusted me . . ." He felt his breathing deepen, the red haze creeping in at the edges of his vision.

"And for that you will be punished. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," she gasped, her head dropping down.

He knelt on the bed behind her, not bothering to take off his boots—if he remained fully clothed, he could leave as soon as he was done.

Placing his palm in the centre of her back, he pushed her down until her red hair was fanned out across the sheets, pale buttocks straining into the air. Sliding his knee between her thighs, he forced them apart before setting a hand on one of her cheeks.

"Your punishment and all that it entails will end with your safe word. Otherwise, you will take everything I give you."

He paused before deciding upon something else. "You will apologise with each stroke. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," her muffled response drifted up.

Her compliance pleased him. "Then we are agreed."

His hand on her buttock slid down between her cheeks before he extended his index finger, slipping it easily into her pussy. She was already sopping as he knew she would be. Sliding a second digit in, he pumped her mechanically. He could speak to her but saw no purpose—this was all process, his actions would communicate anything he needed to say.

Grasping the base of his cock, he levelled the head at her entrance before recalling his fantasy. Taking in the entirety of what was before him, his mouth twisted into a mirthless sneer before he thrust into her.

Moaning, she fisted the sheets between her hands. He pumped into her again, making her entire body shudder as he bottomed out. She was pleasantly tight around his cock—either they hadn't fucked a lot or Potter didn't have the girth to trouble her. He suspected the latter but wasn't particularly interested in giving any more consideration to Potter's dick—he was more interested in getting the most out of his ex-fiancée.

With his next incursion, he slapped his palm sharply against one of her cheeks, making her cry out in surprise.

"I'm sorry, sir," she responded after a short delay.

This was good. Better than he'd imagined. He continued to press his palm into her back as he fucked her, delivering short hard slaps to her cheeks with the other hand. She didn't skip a beat, giving him what he'd demanded. After a while the sting forced him to change hands. This time, he sat back to admire the blooming red in her cheeks as his cock slammed between them, making them jolt like a pair of raspberry blancmanges.

The pain had turned her voice ragged and her apologies were beginning to sound meaningful, almost heartfelt. He reveled in it initially, enjoying the power, the perverse vindication, but then it started to tug somewhere uncomfortable. Gritting his teeth, he willed himself to hold on, to see out this rare opportunity.

Speeding up, he watched as it slick cock made increasingly short egressions from the depths of her pussy. He slapped her so hard that she cried out.

"I'm sorry!"

His throat tightened.

"So you fucking should be!" he choked before pulling out and grasping his cock, stroking it as he spurted his creamy release over her mottled purple cheeks.

And the satisfaction lasted for just one second before the shock and guilt poured over him like a shower of shit.

"Fuck," he ground out, before flipping her over to see her face, blood red and shaken, on the verge of tears.

He had no words and so did the only thing he could think of. The only thing he was good at anymore.

Slipping his legs off the bed, he knelt on the ground and buried his face in her pussy. Using a combination of hands, lips, tongue and nose, something women came back for more than anything else, he worked until her shuddering breaths had turned into gasps and moans. The heaviness in his chest hadn't abated but the sounds soothed him somewhat. And when he felt the tension mounting inside her, he curled the pads of his fingers into her G-spot and rubbed as he sucked gently on her clitoris.

A high-pitched keening rose from her and suddenly her hands were in his hair, stroking him. He closed his eyes, wishing he'd stayed at home and jacked off. Or found a complete stranger—someone separate from him and his . . . fucking . . . history.

"Uuuhhh Gods!" she cried out as she clutched him tightly, her pussy exploding in his face. She writhed under him as he continued to rub, lick and pump her, drawing out a second powerful orgasm before he sat back on his haunches, breathing heavily.

When she finally opened her eyes, blinking away the daze, she gave him a curious look.

"I don't know who she is, but I hope you got her out of your system—for her sake."

He stared at her for a long time, his chest billowing behind his black shirt before finally dipping his head in acknowledgement. Standing, he tucked his cock back in his trousers and drew the wand from his sleeve, pointing it at her.

"What are you doing?" she frowned, sitting up.

"Don't worry, I'm merely casting a cleansing spell."

"Don't worry . . . I won't be needing it," she replied levelly.

His black eyes searched hers before he inclined his head. "Miss Weasley." And disappeared out the door.

* * *

Hermione still had the cushion over her face when the knock came at her door. She had a reasonable idea of who it was and clearly that person hadn't been in any hurry to seek her out so they could just stay out there. She rolled over, pushing her face into the back of the couch, trying to block out the world.

"'Mione?" The knock came again.

"Go away," Hermione called.

"Let me in. I need to talk to you."

"I'm busy."

"You're lying on the couch. I can tell by your voice. Let me in. Please?"

Hermione rolled onto her back with a loud huff. _What did she want? To gloat about fucking Snape or to tease her about spying on them?_

She was both furious and mortified—and unsure if either or both were even warranted. Ginny had betrayed her. _Hadn't she?_ Or maybe she hadn't. It wasn't like she'd promised _not_ to seek him out. They'd not really discussed it. _Was there such thing as betrayal by omission—the fact that she hadn't shared her plans?_ _Or was it just sour grapes on Hermione's part? But sour grapes about what?_ It wasn't as though she wanted Snape. _Was she just jealous that Ginny seemed to have so many options and she had none? Or did she feel betrayal on Harry's behalf?_

"'Mione?" Ginny was speaking through the keyhole. How ironic.

"Yessss," Hermione hissed irritably, pushing herself off the couch and storming to the door.

Placing a haughty hand on her hip, she yanked the door open.

"What do you want?"

Ginny smirked. "What have you done to your hair?"

Hermione patted her head and realized she must look a fright. "If you must know, I've been rocking with embarrassment. What have _you_ been up to?"

The smirk dropped away and Ginny sighed. "I'm sorry, 'Mione. I should have come straight here."

Hermione pursed her lips, scanning her suspiciously. It wasn't quite what she'd expected.

"Come in," she muttered resignedly, standing aside to allow Ginny to pass.

"Do you want a drink?" She followed her into the room.

"Yes. Something strong."

Hermione went into the kitchenette and grabbed a half bottle of gin and two glasses from the cupboard. She slopped a good amount into both glasses before handing one to her friend who was standing, looking out the window at the blank wall of the building opposite.

"Do you want to sit?"

"No . . . I think I'll be standing for a while." Ginny took a large gulp.

Hermione propped herself on the arm of one of her chairs, crossing her legs at the ankles.

"So what happened? What did he do to you?"

"Nothing that I didn't ask for." Ginny continued to gaze out the window.

"What went wrong? You two seemed to be getting along famously the last time I saw you."

"Hmmm," Ginny snorted mirthlessly.

There was a long silence. Hermione was beginning to get worried. She tried the light-hearted approach.

"Let me guess—he couldn't get it up?"

Ginny raised her eyebrows in wry acknowledgement. "Nope. That part worked fine."

"What then?"

Ginny turned away from the window. "He's pretty fucked up."

"Of course he's fucked up." Hermione frowned. "You don't behave as he does if you're happy and carefree. What did he do to you?"

Ginny sighed. "It wasn't what he did. It was his intention." She took another gulp. "Maybe if I didn't know him, I might have been able to go along with it all. I mean—I had a double orgasm for the first time in my life. He's incredibly good but . . . "

"But he's fucked up," Hermione finished, taking a swallow.

"I just thought this was an opportunity to get away from all that emotional baggage—the stuff that Harry carries around constantly. Only to find someone worse . . . "

"You weren't looking for a relationship with him were you?" Hermione looked taken aback.

"No, of course not. I just wanted someone experienced and open. He's sexually open but I'm pretty sure it's just a cover."

"For what?"

"Intimacy . . . love . . . whatever fucked up thing he's missing and craving."

Hermione sighed heavily, staring into her glass.

"So the take-home message is 'keep your distance'?"

"He's still hot. And I'd fuck him again if he sorted his shit out," Ginny said. "But he needs someone to sort him." She looked at Hermione pointedly.

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "You want me to sort him out so you can fuck him again?"

Ginny smirked. "Isn't that what friends are for?"


	7. Salaciosity

A/N: Thanks to the wonderful Marriage1988 once again. She is entirely responsible for the scene between McGonagall and Dumbledore.

* * *

His black eyes avoided hers the following morning. Head bent, he unlocked his office door with a flick of his wrist and was through in a heartbeat.

At least the forced politeness had been dispensed with. She'd been steeling herself for one of his patented sneers or some sleazy innuendo about her voyeuristic tendencies, but his hurried avoidance confirmed exactly what Ginny had implied. Something had happened. And he didn't seem to be gloating about it.

Tapping her quill against her fingertips, she listened to the silence from his office, wondering if he was listening to her silence in return. She had spent the evening turning over Ginny's proposal of 'sorting' him. She still hadn't decided whether he really was 'Snape the lad', helping himself to every lascivious indulgence on offer or if, as Ginny had suggested, he was actually 'Snape the fucked up, long-suffering soul', self-medicating in every possible way in an attempt to exorcise the restless ghosts from his past.

Either way, sorting him was not a simple prospect and, in fact, may be an impossible prospect if he was as damaged as he appeared to be. And then there was the question of, _'why?'_

 _Why her? Why should she be the one to bother? Had others tried and failed? Was he the pet project of a succession of women like herself – desperate for a cause? And did he, in turn, play upon their good intentions?_ She suspected that if his antics _were_ those of a broken man, looking for a balm—anything to soothe the hurt—he could be utterly ruthless, selfish and manipulative in his methods.

That wasn't something she needed in her life right now. Or ever. There were so many reasons to close her door this instant and relieve her mind of any thought of him—to leave him to his own depraved devices. But there was one small reason not to. He was brilliant.

Even when she was a student, she had known that he was utterly wasted. No doubt much of his frustration stemmed from being forced to teach disinterested students how to brew the most rudimentary potions. He had been brilliant as a student himself and had continued to operate at the highest level throughout his Professorship despite long hours of marking feeble essays from those who would never boast a fraction of his talent. He'd been instrumental in the defeat of Voldemort and had managed to remain resolute and stoic despite the loss of those closest to him. He really was the tragic hero. But, Hermione mused, he was also a slut.

She needed advice from someone who knew him far better than she did. Professor McGonagall had been his teacher, colleague and friend for three decades. No doubt she would be concerned about his current antics. Maybe the Hogwarts Headmistress would be able to help her decide whether there was any point in putting herself through the turmoil of trying to help him. It would be at least worth owling her.

But there was something else she needed to address first—the confrontation she'd been avoiding for weeks. The timing wasn't perfect—in fact it couldn't be worse, but she needed to establish some . . . boundaries.

"Professor?" Hermione leaned in his doorway.

Snape's eyes snapped up from the parchment he'd been scanning, roving over her warily.

"Yes."

"May I have a word?"

He continued to appraise her for so long that she raised an eyebrow to force a response.

"Now?" The word rolled off his tongue with obvious disdain.

"If it's convenient." She attempted a disarming smile but it did nothing to defuse the tension.

Instead of a response, his eyes flickered to the chair opposite.

Drawing in a deep breath, she sat quickly before he changed his mind.

"I thought it timely to discuss our current investigations and the overlap between them—perhaps we need to set some boundaries?" she blurted out, hoping that the speed of her words would be enough to slip through his scrutiny.

Crossing his arms, he leaned back in his seat. "What exactly do you mean by 'boundaries'?"

"Well, as you suggested before the troll . . . incident . . . our investigations seem to have some commonality and I just wanted to make sure that we aren't duplicating one another's work. For efficiency purposes," she added hastily.

His lip curled up in the sneer she'd been expecting earlier. "You really do have control issues don't you?"

Hermione crossed her arms, an irritable edge sharpening her voice. "I thought it quite a reasonable suggestion Professor . . . uh—Mr Snape. The dark beast investigation, I note, has led to several inquiries that have encroached upon the flying beast domain—namely the question of dragon involvement. All queries of this sort should really come through me but it seems you have taken it upon yourself to peruse the flying beast data."

He tilted his head and peered down his nose at her. "So this has nothing to do with boundaries. You are merely asserting that you believe that you should have been consulted?"

Hermione blinked furiously, realising she should have been better prepared with her argument. "So why didn't you consult with me?"

He arched a sardonic eyebrow. "You always seemed so busy. I was loathe to interrupt."

Hermione suddenly leaned forward, slapping a hand firmly on the desk before him. "Don't treat me like an idiot," she growled before remembering that she'd actually intended to improve her relationship with him, not create further division.

Rather than the expected snarky retort, however, his face softened and his black eyes gleamed as they raked over her.

"Fiery little Gryffindor," he murmured silkily. "Why didn't you join us? It could have been . . . intense."

Hermione could feel the flush staining her cheeks as she swallowed with difficulty. But she refused to allow him to fluster her.

"From what I heard, lack of intensity wasn't the issue," she responded, leaning back from him. "Although Ginny may have appreciated the chaperone. Or I could have even helped provide you with a conscience."

That struck home.

"A conscience?" he sneered.

In a flash he was up and skirting the desk with slow menacing steps, eyes locked on her like heat-seeking missiles.

"What the fuck would you know about a conscience?" he hissed through gritted teeth as he approached.

Hermione felt like she'd been bound to her seat—otherwise she would have been out the door and locked inside her own office by the time he leaned intimidatingly over her.

"You think my life has been lived without conscience?" He placed a hand on either side of her head, grasping the back of the chair tightly. "Do you even know the meaning of the word?"

Hermione stared into the face that was as close now as it had been when he'd healed her weeks before—but this time it was shaking with fury. She regretted her words. To accuse someone who had made the sacrifices he had, of lacking a conscience was supremely unfair but equally she knew that whatever had happened with Ginny, his actions hadn't been those of the man of integrity that he once was. She needed to remind him of that.

"I would suggest that you may have lost your way." Her voice waivered under his piercing gaze.

"And what would you know of my 'way'?" he spat, his breath buffeting her face. "Never presume to know me, Miss Granger. Despite how enamoured you clearly are with what you consider to be your superior intellect, you don't have the slightest clue." His eyes were like red hot pokers, boring into her. "Now you can take your judgement and your disapproval and your sanctimonious interference and get the fuck out of my office!"

"Do we have a problem here, Snape?"

They jerked around to see Parsons standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets as though he'd been enjoying the performance for more than a moment.

Severus snatched his hands back and swept away. "Not any more."

"Miss Granger?" Parsons raised a bushy eyebrow at her.

"N . . . no, Mr Parsons," she stammered.

Parsons looked between them for a long moment before giving a brief nod. "I'd like to meet with the two of you next week—about a collaboration. I hope that isn't going to pose an issue for either of you?"

"Not for me." Snape resumed his seat and snatched up the piece of parchment as though determined to get on with his work.

Hermione rose on shaky legs. "No, Mr Parsons," she murmured quietly. "Excuse me," she shuffled past him before returning to her office and closing the door.

* * *

Hermione left the Headmistress' office, finally resolved in her commitment to at least try to do something to help the man who had suggested in no uncertain terms, only that morning, that she should 'fuck off.' Minerva had been far more aware of Snape's current situation than she'd expected. And had been concerned enough to share some of the more disturbing details with Hermione, appreciating that she was perhaps in a better position, as his colleague, to assist him. The headmistress had stopped short of encouraging her to take an active part in supporting Snape, but at the same time she hadn't attempted to warn her off. She clearly cared enough about the man to consider any attempts to improve his situation worthwhile.

Despite the ugliness of the incident that morning, Hermione chose to regard it as further evidence of his pain and confusion, rather than a genuine threat. He'd basically asserted that the complexity of his life was inconceivable to her but she felt she understood him well enough to at least try to help. And judging by what Minerva had said, if he was spiraling out of control as quickly as he appeared to be, perhaps she didn't have that long to turn him around.

* * *

Minerva's eyes were still trained on the door that Hermione had exited.

"I worry about the boy, Albus," she spoke quietly to the portrait behind her.

"He is no boy, my dear. Hasn't been one for many years."

" _Indeed._ But I still think of him as that terrified little lad from Cokeworth, abused, neglected . . . "

"Well," Dumbledore sighed, stretching in his chair. "He hasn't been abused or neglected in recent days . . . time has marched on, you know."

"You're missing my point." Minerva turned to face him. "And incidentally, there _is_ abuse and neglect still going on. He's the one perpetrating the abuse now, hurting himself with these reckless choices. Nothing has changed. As Hermione verified, he's smoking, drinking to excess and then there's the hearsay about illicit potions, not to mention his promiscuous behavior with women, many of them strangers."

"And some of them clearly not . . . "

She snorted with disgust. "Aye. I heard about Sinistra on the Astronomy Tower. And some others. Even a few of the final year students have been drawn into his free-fall."

"And what do you propose we do?" Albus implored her with an upturned palm. "Tell a forty-something year old man to curb his appetites, to resume his solitary existence, to receive no pleasures from life? He deserves freedom after all he has done . . . all I asked him to do . . . "

"We _were_ talking about _Severus._ Not you," she replied sharply. "Perhaps your sense of guilt is clouding your good judgement?"

Albus shrugged. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I've done enough interfering for a lifetime and Severus will have to face the consequences of his own choices, not choices thrust upon him by others. He did so before, if you recall."

Minerva shook her head. "Aye, and what did that teach him? He came to you on his knees in penance, desperate to protect the woman he had loved, and he lost her . . . what did that teach him about facing his own choices?"

Albus looked away, avoiding the accusation in her green eyes.

Her lined face softened. "Think of him as your son, my dear, and that perspective may prompt you to 'interfere,' or at least, provide some much needed gentle counsel.'

"Yes, yes. Allow me to think on this some more, Minnie. Please?"

* * *

The burn was far worse than he could ever remember, like liquid lightning surging through his veins. And he was more than aware of the cause. There'd been no reprieve, nothing to defuse the tension. The previous evening with the Weasley girl had provided no relief—in fact it had made things far worse. And then there was Granger and her compulsive interference. He was out of practice with how to deal with the likes of her. These days he would just fuck the annoying ones until they shut up or repented. But she seemed less interested in that. _What the fuck did she want from him if it wasn't a quickie over his desk or a slow screw against the wall like the rest? Did she really intend to be his fucking conscience?_ One minute of her insufferable presence on his shoulder, tutting over his every move and he would be ready to strangle her.

"Fuck," he ran his hands through his hair. He needed a hit—something top grade—guaranteed to send him straight to oblivion. And he needed a fuck. No strings. And no boundaries. He needed to let loose.

Glancing at the clock as he paced the boards of his lounge room, he finally gave in with a growl. It was earlier than he would have liked—less chance to find someone as wasted as he needed them to be. He would just need to indulge her in a little chemical orgy beforehand. He grimaced. It was going to be an expensive night.

Slinking into the dusky haze of the den, he instantly felt the tension that had infiltrated his body begin to melt, trickling like iced water out his fingertips. Inhaling deeply, he allowed the exotic scent of illicit indulgences to flood his nostrils. Yes, this was his sanctuary—here his mind and body could exist freely, as close to the Gods that had seen fit to grant him a few more years in this forsaken world as he could get.

The Squib was polishing glasses, face impassive but ferrety eyes missing nothing. Severus leaned on the bar. "Anything here for me yet?"

"One—just your taste." The Squib nodded curtly, his eyes continuing to rove around the room.

"Far gone?"

"Getting there. I put something in her last drink."

"Good man." Snape slipped a Galleon into his top pocket.

"I'll take her now. And a bottle of your finest."

The Squib nodded again before flicking the towel over his shoulder and sauntering off.

Snape had only just started undoing the buttons on his shirt when a soft knock came at the door. Good. He wanted to get into her as quickly as possible. Pulling the door open, he felt another wave of relief roll over him. He'd have to leave the Squib a handsome tip this time—he'd excelled himself. She was elegant, petite and, in a slinky black dress, utterly fuckable. _Just. . . his . . . taste._

"You wanted me?" she asked, her voice husky.

Without a word, Snape pulled her into the room and slammed the door before thrusting her against it. He never kissed the ones he picked up in the Den. He didn't need to. They were there to fuck. And yet the desire was so strong right now, and his resolve so weakened, that he found his mouth on hers before he'd even made the conscious decision.

Her lips, deliciously soft, opened easily to him, letting him slip inside to taste her. He found himself groaning like a teenager and realised that his need this evening was on the verge of overwhelming him. He never felt this out of control but the hot cavern of her mouth had him panting and salivating. He might even have to fuck her right here, against this door, as an entrée.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" she finally forced out against his lips.

He pulled back, his eyes settling upon the small bottle in her hand. The Squib must have given it to her.

Lips curling into a smile, he ran his thumb across her bottom lip. _Utterly succulent_. "Ladies . . . first."

Her smile faltered a little and his broadened. A novice. _Nice_. The poison would make her utterly compliant—his plaything for as many hours as he needed.

"It's just a little . . . mood . . . enhancer," he purred.

She pulled off the stopper and brought it to her nose for a sniff.

He smirked, wondering why she bothered—there would be nothing a delicious little piece like her could tell from scent alone.

When her eyes returned to his, his breath caught, there was something—

"Monkshood," she announced. "Leaves, not flowers—toxic, induces wakefulness. Hemlock—poisonous, induces latent catatonia." Snape's frown deepened. "Dragon horn—magical amplifier, expensive . . . " She gave a brief shake of her head. "If I'm not mistaken, this is a stimulant and hallucinogen. And it's also a neurotoxin, so I'm going to have to pass. And for your own good, I'm afraid you will too."

And with a flick, she pulled the wand from behind her back and disintegrated the bottle into a glittering cloud of dust before removing the glamour that had barely concealed her features. _Why hadn't he seen through it?_ _It was so fucking obvious—Granger!_

Snarling he rammed her against the door, pressing a hand to her throat while she jerked her wand up and jabbed it into his Adam's apple.

"Let . . . go of me," she ground out against the constriction.

"You fucking interfering bitch," he growled, pushing harder. "Why don't you get yourself a fucking life instead of trying to fuck up mine?"

"Now . . . or I'll tear your throat out," she gargled, barely managing to squeeze the words out past his tightening fingers, her face blood red, eyes bulging.

He gave one last shove before jerking away.

Hermione fell to her knees, choking and gasping as she tried to draw breath.

Threading both hands into his hair, he began to pace, his face a rictus of anguish.

"Leave. Now!" he sobbed.

Staggering to her feet, Hermione held her throat as she yanked the door open and fled into the darkness.


	8. Gluttawdry

Hermione studied the dusky purple marks in her bedroom mirror. It'd been three days and her throat still had the appearance of being freshly squeezed. She stretched it painfully from side to side. Every reminder of that horrific evening set the fury in the pit of her stomach bubbling. And the rage was only partly directed at the poor excuse for a man who had perpetrated the damage. The vast majority was for herself. He'd warned her off in no uncertain terms and she'd still insisted on interfering. She'd also done something she knew full well he would respond badly to.

Despite trying to convince herself that her only motivation had been compassion, she now admitted it wasn't the case. She had wanted to be needed—to be the person that Snape thought she was when he'd grasped her hand in his bloody ones before slipping into unconsciousness. He'd desperately wanted her then. And for some reason she imagined that it might happen again.

It hadn't. He'd nearly killed her. And if she hadn't smelled the spike that the smarmy bartender had attempted to slip her, Snape may have done plenty more besides. As it was, she'd come extremely close to becoming his next conquest. And whenever she thought of that—the moment he'd thrust her against the door and plundered her mouth with his tongue, the bubbling fury in her stomach transformed, reluctantly, sluggishly and inexplicably into a slithering coil of lust. The betrayal from her own body frustrated her no end. She wasn't depraved. But she hadn't had sex in an unreasonably long time. It could have been anyone—Snape just happened to be the one looking to break a long drought. Although, admittedly, things had turned pretty fucking unsexy after that.

Part of her churning discontent came from the fact that there'd been no resolution. He'd called in 'ill' since that day, so she'd been unable to gauge the fallout. _Would he be repentant?_ He'd certainly seemed upset when she left but it was impossible to tell if it was induced by self-pity or self-loathing. At the very least she deserved an apology from him. She deserved to be furious—she might even have grounds to lay some sort of charges against him. But deep down she'd known she was courting danger when she entered the Tiger's den. She knew his state of mind and had witnessed his shaking fury at her interference only that morning. And yet she'd pushed it—pushed him to breaking point. She couldn't deny that she was worried—worried and guilt-ridden that she might have made things worse by trying to play the heroine—Hermione the brave warrior, out to save all creatures great and small.

Sighing, she glamoured the neck bruises, followed by the grazes on her knees where the glass shards had scoured and shredded them. She would unfortunately have to also forego her morning coffee. She had absolutely no desire to encounter him in the neutral space of the café; part of her was still concerned that he might be holding onto his bloodlust, looking to do her in for trying to 'fuck up his life.' Then there was the possibility that he'd gone off the rails completely and she'd never see him again—a prospect that filled her with relief and dread in equal measure.

And so when she saw that his office door was open as she approached, her heart lifted a little. At least he wasn't dead. But when her eyes flickered to the dark form hunched over his desk, she flinched in astonishment. He looked like hell.

Face sallow and drawn, eyes bloodshot and hair even more greasy than she ever remembered, he had the appearance of someone who had been on the bender of a lifetime. And no doubt he had. Hermione found that she'd actually stopped walking with the shock, and although she stood there, eyes fixed upon him for several moments, he didn't look up. Either he was deliberately ignoring her or in another world.

She wanted to say something but there was nothing that seemed appropriate, nothing that would encompass the depth of what had transpired between them. And so she kept walking, dumping her coat and bag on the ground in her office before sinking into her chair. This was such an unfamiliar experience for her—feeling at a loss. She was a decisive person. She loathed procrastination and feeble fence-sitting and yet here she was, paralyzed by indecision.

She knew that if she didn't at least say something, the tension of sharing this space with him would overwhelm her. She needed to know exactly where they stood with one another. _Would they need to make alternative work arrangements? Would one of them have to quit?_ Heart thundering in anticipation, she rose. And then fell.

Katie Bell was standing in his doorway.

"Did you need me?" She heard Katie ask.

There was a long pause.

"Come in. Shut the door." Snape issued the firm commands.

Katie did as instructed, disappearing into his office and closing the door. And Hermione's fury returned. With a vengeance.

* * *

"Where have you been?" Katie approached him uncertainly.

 _Where haven't I been_? Snape snorted before pinching the bridge of his nose. He hadn't slept in three days. The world no longer made sense to him. He couldn't even remember why he'd decided to come here and yet here he was, borderline delirious, hungover and exhausted.

"Professor?"

"Sit on my lap," he ordered.

Swiveling his chair around, he waited for her to hitch up her tight skirt and straddle him. Running his hands over her buttocks, he closed his eyes. He'd felt the soft curves of so many tits and arses over the past three days that he was no longer sure what was what. But the warmth of her skin and the weight of her on his groin gave him comfort.

"I was worried about you," she murmured in his ear.

He snorted again. _Worried?_ His main worry now was how he was going to pay for the bender that he hadn't intended to survive. Fucking iron constitution. He'd downed enough poison to kill most people twice over. But then again, he wasn't a Snape for nothing. His father would be proud _. . . His . . . fucking . . . father . . ._

Severus grimaced as he curled his fingers into her flesh. _Hadn't he had enough? Hadn't he indulged in enough for one lifetime?_ It seemed not. His head pitched forward and his lips met with the apex of her cleavage. Flicking out his tongue, he tasted her—fresh, clean. Not like the sweaty, musky bodies he'd devoured for hour upon hour until his jaw and tongue ached.

They'd blended, every single one, into a seething amorphous being, a beast with multiple backs that he'd ridden in every way possible. His memory was a blur of skin and holes and thrusts and moans—all mashed together except one—the very first. The one that had started this whole fucking suicide mission. And he'd barely even touched her—little more than a snog against the door. But he'd been trying to excise her like some purulent boil ever since—unsuccessfully. She was still there, he felt her now—present, watching, waiting, fucking him up.

They expected more. They always had. He had never been enough. Every single one of them wanted him to be more, to give more. But he had no fucking more to give. And just when he thought he'd managed to cast aside the shackles of expectation, to escape the suffocating weight of responsibility, someone was applying the screws once again, rescinding his freedom, trying to drag him back, make him care again. He couldn't fucking care again! _Didn't they understand that?_ Caring was what had dragged him into the depths of damnation in the first place. That's why he'd made the decision when he'd rejected his past life that he'd rather die on top of the world than drown in its sewers—trying to atone for a multitude of evils that were not of his doing and that were immune to all the care a man could give.

He'd thrown it back in their faces—the judgement, the disapproval—given them a fucking good reason to be disgusted until they collapsed under its weight. She was out there, hating him. He felt her. But if he gave her enough reason she'd go beyond hating—she'd give up on him altogether. That's what he needed.

Katie Bell was writhing on his groin, rubbing herself against his swelling cock. She was obviously keen for a little relief after days of his absence. But he had other plans.

"Suck me," he ordered.

Without skipping a beat, she slipped back and reached down to undo his fly. _So obedient_. As she fumbled in her haste to extract his cock, he slowly pushed his chair out from behind his desk. It was such a gradual withdrawal and she was so consumed in her efforts that she didn't notice. When she finally held him in her eager hands, stroking him feverishly, he was in place.

"Take it slowly," he murmured softly, relaxing his legs apart. "That's a good girl."

She gave him a hopeful smile before slithering down to kneel between his thighs. She was always so eager to please him. It was endearing enough to make him come but nothing more. Now he watched as she opened her mouth, her lusty gaze upon him as she licked his swollen head. His unhelpful mind instantly reflected upon how many orifices his member had occupied over the past three days. A quick cleansing spell or two ensured that it wasn't physically unclean, and he had enough sense to down a few potions to keep away the rot, but even he was almost sick of the sight of himself disappearing inside yet another indiscriminate opening. The sensation, however, was pleasing enough. And certainly, the intention was sure to make the outcome wholly satisfying.

As she began to bob, her lips thinning to accommodate his girth, he raised a hand and unfurled his fingers, his silent incantation slipping open the blinds.

Hermione didn't notice at first. She was working through the latest batch of field data, trying her best to focus despite the knowledge of what was likely transpiring only metres away. But the rhythmic flickering in the periphery of her vision finally caught her attention and her head snapped up to behold a sight that made her breath catch in her throat.

Imagining it was one thing but seeing it happening in the flesh was something else entirely. Katie's hand was wrapped around his cock, holding it in place so her mouth could take him. She was very animated and Hermione wished she wasn't. It wasn't an image she wanted to have of her, relishing Snape's cock so gratuitously. And he was reclining in his chair, hands resting on the arms, simply watching. _Was it an accident?_ Hermione wondered if they were even aware that she could see them. But then he reached down and raked his fingers into her long dark hair before twisting it around one fist, exposing Katie's thrusting face and his greasy cock to her even further. _Was it deliberate?_ Absolutely. With cool insouciance, he turned his head to glare at her.

His bloodshot eyes, black and hooded, were almost demonic as they blazed out of his ghostly face. Nostrils flaring, his head eased back and lips parted in a demonstration of obvious enjoyment at Katie's efforts. Despite her astonishment, Hermione knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to fuck her up. No doubt it was payback—a childish act of defiance.

He used Katie's knotted hair to pull her down more forcefully onto him and Hermione could see her desperately trying to rise to the challenge. It was sick. He was sick.

Hermione was positive that he wanted to intimidate her—shock her into some sort of seismic capitulation no doubt. She may be rather proper sometimes but, in reality, she wasn't easily shocked. She'd seen enough it her lifetime. Just because she wasn't a debaucherous asshole didn't mean she was totally naïve. Fuck him. He wasn't the only one who'd survived a war.

Pushing her chair back, she stood and approached the window. The ecstasy on his face dissolved as he watched her slow advance. His eyes narrowed like those of a wary animal. Hermione continued to approach until she was only inches from the glass, her eyes locked upon his. Katie, obviously unaware, kept sucking and tugging for all she was worth. Then, as he attempted to undo her with a final sneer, Hermione sliced her fingers across her neck to remove the glamour, revealing the deep purple evidence of long, strong fingers, wrapped around her throat.

His face collapsed as he pulled Katie away. The last thing Hermione saw were the daggers of pain in his eyes as he threw an incantation at the blinds, slamming them shut so that they were left rattling against the glass.


	9. Indecadence

A/N: Thanks again to Marriage1988 for more excellent dialogue in this chapter.

* * *

They were sitting as far apart as physically possible in Parsons' office. In fact, Snape's legs were practically folded against the wall in an attempt to turn his back on her. Hermione stared intently at a blank page of her diary for no other reason than to ignore him. Parsons was late.

Even though a weekend had passed between the moment Snape had snapped his blinds closed and Hermione had subsequently slammed her door, the tension hadn't defused one iota. Both were desperate to have the meeting over and to get down to the business of silently loathing one another from the comfort of their own offices.

Snape exhaled noisily and Hermione had to stop herself from looking, determined not to acknowledge his existence in any way. Flipping through a blur of pages, she pretended to search for something. _Was Parsons making them wait on purpose?_ He was more than aware that they didn't get along, especially after catching Snape demanding that she 'get the fuck out of his office.' But Hermione hadn't been Parsons' favourite person since her remarks after the troll incident—and her further cynical comments after the outcome of the troll investigation had exonerated him. Hermione crossed her legs and twisted away from the dark form that seethed out the corner of her eye. If Parsons was trying to punish her, it was proving more than effective. She could barely breathe in Snape's presence—she wanted to give him nothing.

"Jolly good, you're both here!" Parsons blustered into the office, jowls shuddering in the aftermath of his announcement.

Neither answered.

Parsons squeezed his portly form behind his desk and sat, clearing his throat as he clasped his hands enthusiastically. "So . . . you're both probably wondering why I've called you to this meeting?"

Hermione still found no way to respond. It was rhetorical after all. He was always rhetorical.

"Well . . . I have an exciting proposition for you." His piggy eyes flickered between them as his rubbery lips curled into a self-satisfied grin.

Hermione returned his look with an equivalent one of dread.

"I understand that you've both made progress on your investigations and that there may be some . . . overlap?"

More silence. Hermione chewed her lip. Snape's foot twitched.

"So . . . I propose a collaboration." Parsons jiggled in his seat and gave a good-natured wink. "An opportunity to work together. To establish exactly what we're dealing with here."

"What sort of collaboration?" Hermione asked in a flat voice, her eyes almost reaching Snape but retreating just in time.

"I was thinking of some sort of . . . field trip." Parsons inclined his head. "Yes. We need you out there, investigating in person. I understand that the data coming in is ambiguous to say the least. I'm confident that two bright, talented minds together should be able to work out what's going on."

Snape made a strange strangled noise, before clearing his throat. "With respect Mr Parsons, I fail to see how we are going to improve upon the data gathered from those qualified to undertake field investigations."

"Oh, nonsense." Parsons swatted a pudgy hand at him. "There's something going on out there. You know it and I know it. You have enough knowledge and experience between the two of you to hunt down the evidence we need to tackle this problem."

"And by 'this problem', I'm guessing you mean the possibility of a dark beast uprising?" Hermione's voice rose in shaky consternation. "You want the two of us to go after an unknown number of creatures that may be looking to perpetrate the largest rebellion since Voldemort?"

"Precisely." Parsons levelled his eyes at her.

"And who will be accompanying us—for protection?"

Parsons snorted, his bushy eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "Only one of the most powerful wizards in the world!" He nodded towards Snape. "The man who single-handedly took down a troll. If that's not protection, I don't know what is!"

"Forgive me if that doesn't fill me with optimism," Hermione muttered down at her diary, feeling nauseous. The heat of Snape's gaze was singeing her but she ignored him.

"So we're decided then!" Parsons stood as though the conversation were finished.

"When is this field trip to take place?" Snape's voice was low and tight.

"It shouldn't take more than a couple of days to get yourselves ready." Parsons squeezed out from behind his desk and stood between them. "There's equipment in the store room, just take what you need."

"Equipment?" Hermione frowned up at him.

"Yes—tents, sleeping bags and whatnot. There might even be a camping stove in there I think."

Snape's jaw worked convulsively. "And how long do you expect this 'field trip' to take?"

"Oh, at least a week or two I would think." Parsons started towards the door.

"A week or two?" Both Snape and Hermione cried in unison, lurching up from their seats.

Parsons turned back, bafflement contorting his doughy face. "You _are_ both committed to your roles at the Ministry aren't you?" He peered at the two of them, his eyebrows sinking like two furry slugs over his beady eyes, his intense displeasure evident.

"Yes, Mr Parsons," Hermione murmured.

Snape simply grunted and crossed his arms.

Parsons scrutinized them for a moment longer before lowering his voice. "I do hope so. I'd hate to think that I misjudged your . . . aptitude . . . for these roles."

As Parsons turned and waddled out, Hermione felt the air clotting around her until she could barely draw breath. Finally, she raised her eyes to glare at Snape. And if looks could kill, she decided that they both would have toppled simultaneously onto the floor of Parsons' office. As it was, she simply left him to burn, turning on her heel and storming out. She would give him a day to quit. If he didn't, she would.

* * *

"I don't get it." Ginny stretched a leg and hooked it over the back of Hermione's couch where she lay, watching Hermione slamming around her kitchenette like a pinball.

"There's nothing to 'get'," Hermione huffed, stuffing onions and potatoes into a bag before storming back to her pantry.

"So is he going to quit?" Ginny dropped a handful of peanuts into her mouth.

"No."

"Are you?"

"Obviously not, otherwise I wouldn't be packing, would I?"

Ginny shrugged, taking a sip of wine.

"So what're you going to do?"

Hermione rammed a number of cans into the bag before propping an agitated hand on her hip. "I'm going to freeze my arse off trekking around the desolate moors of Scotland whilst trying to avoid being attacked by dark beasts, the scariest of all being my traveling companion whom I will have my wand trained upon at all times, ready to hex off his fucking balls."

"So the 'sorting' didn't work?" Ginny sat up, pulling her knees to her chest.

"No, Ginny," Hermione snapped. "I'm afraid I didn't manage to infuse any humanity into the man for your future fucking pleasure. He's an animal."

"Mmmm, he sure his," Ginny murmured.

"And not in a good way," Hermione threw over her shoulder as she pulled cutlery from a drawer.

"You're probably not going to want the present I brought for you then." Ginny swallowed another mouthful of wine.

"That depends." Hermione grabbed a bowl and plate from an overhead cupboard.

"On?"

"On whether the present is some sort of impotence potion for the man without an ounce of self-control."

"Actually." Ginny raised an eyebrow. "That's surprisingly close."

Hermione snatched up her wine glass and downed half of it in two long swallows on her way into the lounge room.

"So what is it?"

Ginny chewed her lip as she took in her friend's flushed cheeks and wild hair. "I'm not sure I want to tell you. Not with the mood you're in."

Hermione flopped down on the couch beside her, brushing away the wine that had slopped onto her lap. "If it's going to help me survive, I want to know what it is."

"I thought it might . . . but now I'm not so sure."

Hermione swiveled around to face Ginny. "Out with it. I'm leaving tomorrow."

Ginny paused, clearly still uncertain, but then she pushed her glass onto the coffee table and reached for her bag. Dipping into the contents, she pulled out a small blue bottle and handed it to Hermione.

"So this is the impotence potion is it?" Hermione held the bottle up to the light, turning it slowly.

"Ummm . . . not quite. It's more like an Amortentia potion."

Hermione frowned. "You want to give Snape a love potion?"

"It's not for him," Ginny replied weakly.

It took a moment for her words to sink in. And then Hermione exploded. "No!" she cried, throwing the bottle down onto the couch. "You want me to fall in love? With that bastard?"

"It's not a love potion, Hermione. It's an Amory potion—lust."

"Lust? That's worse! You want me to lust after the most indiscriminate asshole on the planet? The man who has slept with over half the women in London?"

Ginny sighed. "I told you it wasn't a good time to give it to you."

"And when would be a good time? When would be the ideal time for me to fuck the most disgusting, depraved person I have ever had the misfortune of interacting with?"

"Just pretend I didn't give it to you." Ginny retrieved the bottle. "I should go."

"No. Answer me." Hermione clamped her hand around Ginny's wrist. "What is this really for?"

Ginny pressed her lips together before flicking her red hair out of her eyes. "If you must know, we thought it was the best way for you to sort him . . . And for him to sort you."

"Wait a minute." Hermione's fingers tightened. "Who's we?"

"Let go of me," Ginny sighed.

Hermione's jaw was set, she didn't want the redhead to leave until she'd answered her questions.

"'Mione."

Reluctantly, Hermione released her with a disparaging flick.

Ginny grabbed Hermione's hand, holding it in both of hers. "Don't hate me 'Mione. Please?"

Hermione sighed. "If I was going to hate you, I would have done it long before now."

Ginny's mouth curled into a small smile before she suddenly turned serious. "He's an asshole—undoubtedly. But when I was with him, I got the sense that he's really fucked up."

"No kidding," Hermione groaned wearily. "We've already had this conversation."

"And I thought . . . " Ginny continued. "He just needs someone to love him. Someone demanding and . . . possessive . . . so he wouldn't dare wander again."

Hermione's mouth dropped open but Ginny jumped in before she could explode again.

"Hermione, that's you! You could keep him on the straight and narrow."

"And why would I want to?" Hermione was incredulous.

"Because . . . because . . . I don't know anyone else who's smart enough for you." Ginny threw up a hand in exasperation.

Hermione's brow creased in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"'Mione," Ginny sighed. "You don't fuck anyone because you think they're too stupid to bother with."

"I never said that!" Hermione pulled her hand from Ginny's grasp.

"Well, you did actually." Ginny crossed her arms. "More than once."

Hermione huffed. Unfortunately she did remember saying that. And it was sort of true. But it made her sound like a boring prude. She wasn't. She just had . . . standards.

"But you told me you wanted me to 'sort him' so you could fuck him again." Hermione's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I wonder why?" Ginny cried. "If I told you that I thought you two were a perfect match it wouldn't have gone down quite as well would it?"

Hermione rubbed her eyes with her fingers, she was getting a headache from talking about him. "So you still haven't told me who 'we' is."

"Oh." Ginny's eyes flickered away from Hermione's. "We is myself . . . and . . . Draco."

"What?!" Hermione jumped up. "Draco Malfoy?"

"Do you know any others? It's not a particularly common name," Ginny snapped back, tired of her friend's outbursts.

"And why would Draco be involved in any of this?"

"Because he's one of the best Potion brewers I know," Ginny stated. "And . . . we happen to have a few common interests."

"Ginny! How could you!" Hermione's hand flew to her forehead as she started pacing rapidly back and forth.

"'Mione, I'm not going to have this conversation again," replied Ginny angrily. "What I do in my private life is my business. I was just glad that Draco agreed to make the Amory potion using Snape's . . . you know . . . stuff and so I . . . "

"Wait a fucking minute," Hermione growled, turning on her. "What did you say? Using Snape's what?"

Ginny gave her an exasperated look. "His come. Okay?"

"And I won't ask where you got that from," Hermione sneered.

"Whatever . . . anyway, the potion was made with good intentions."

"Good fucking intentions? Draco Malfoy? Don't make me laugh," Hermione scoffed.

"So Draco's intentions were slightly more selfish," Ginny admitted. "He's sick of Snape fucking everyone he fancies. He's desperate for him to be out of the scene."

"Hasn't Draco got enough _other_ desperate floozies hanging around?"

Ginny sighed, knowing full well who she was referring to. "Okay, I'm out of here." She snatched up her bag. "I really don't need this shit."

"That makes two of us," Hermione snapped. "I just don't know why you think I even need a man. Let alone a man like Snape."

"Because, my dear friend," Ginny looked at her seriously, genuine concern on her face, "You are in desperate need of a damn good fucking."

Then she headed for the door. "I know you don't believe me but I really hope this trip works out."

Before Hermione could ask what she meant by 'works out', Ginny had disappeared out the door.

* * *

As Severus trudged up to Hogwarts' gate, his legs felt as though they were shackled to lead weights. He'd been back to the school on numerous occasions in recent years as a teacher and guest. But this time he'd been summoned—by Dumbledore himself. He'd managed to avoid the former Headmaster and his piercing scrutiny in the past. And Dumbledore hadn't interfered, allowing him his unfettered freedom despite, no doubt, being aware of his circumstances. This particular intrusion, however, brought back too much, his chest now burdened with an uncomfortable heaviness that only Dumbledore could evoke.

From his arrival as a scrawny 'Manc' from Cokeworth, he'd revered Dumbledore as a mentor. And even upon his rise to the school's most feared Professor—after shedding his uncertain demeanour in favour of confident authority, even after clipping and polishing the accent in order to erode his past—even then, at his most imposing, Dumbledore always had his measure, and the man knew it.

Minerva was at the gate to meet him.

"Severus. It's good to see you." Her indomitable Scottish brogue rolled over him. There was gentle concern in her voice, but it was more than that. Her alarm at seeing her former colleague in such a troubled state was evident, even to Snape himself.

"Minerva." Severus nodded stiffly. "You've been well, I assume?"

"Yes, and you?"

"Well enough, I suppose," he sighed. "Now, what's this all about? I have work to attend to and cannot afford to spend more time here than necessary."

Minerva was, as ever, expecting Severus' typical prickliness when it came to Dumbledore, but he seemed more resigned and exhausted than annoyed. She kept her voice even, "Aye. Albus only asked me to collect you. After that, it is between you and he."

"Fine," Severus muttered. "Let's get this over with, then. Shall we?"

As Minerva led Severus through the corridors, she noted that he no longer walked with the purposeful stride he once did, and found herself having to slow down to match his weary pace. She knew he didn't enjoy revisiting the place that held such harsh, unforgiving memories. Within these walls, Severus was, in turns, bullied, neglected, unappreciated, feared, and ultimately reviled during the final year when he was headmaster under the Dark Lord. She couldn't imagine how he was able to stomach the place, really.

"I wonder why you saw fit to escort me on this occasion. Am I not trusted?" Snape's voice fluttered like the robes he'd chosen to wear, his baritone noticeably lighter.

"Of course not, Severus. I wished to accompany you as a courtesy."

"I know she's been here," he continued, even more quietly. "I suspect you were the one who informed her of my . . . activities."

Minerva halted and turned to him.

"If you are speaking of Miss Granger, then refer to her as such," she responded levelly, her green eyes flashing. "Yes, she has been here. She inquired after you and I answered her questions . . . truthfully."

"It wasn't your place," he ground out, black eyes matching hers in intensity. "To indulge such interference."

"Interference?" She quickly looked around before lowering her voice. "This was, in fact, care. You may be surprised to know that there are some of us who still care what happens to you even if you don't."

Severus snorted. "She cares only for herself—and seeking out petty conquests to feed her monumental ego."

"And that's why she was so desperately concerned for you after the troll had all but dismembered your body was it?"

"Concerned?" he scoffed. "If she was so concerned where was she? Cowering with the rest?"

"She was right there. With you. Holding your hand the entire time," Minerva rasped, her voice tight with emotion.

Severus frowned. "No, that was . . . " He suddenly tailed off.

Minerva leaned toward him intently. "Aye, it seems you would prefer to believe the impossible than the truth that is looking you square in the face."

Severus avoided her gaze, visibly shaken. "And rest assured, my lad, if it had been me in Miss Granger's place the evening after she left here, being choked at your hand, you would no longer be in a position to continue your licentious ways." She reached out and hooked a withered hand around his arm. "She's a good lass. And as much as I love you, Severus, if anything happens to her on that trip, I will hold you personally responsible."

With a gentle squeeze, she turned and hastily withdrew.

* * *

Severus' mind was a whirling maelstrom of words and images. It was impossible to decipher real from imagined—and what was, in fact, the fodder of his vivid dreams—the ones from which he often awoke, face wet with sweat and tears. Dumbledore was the last person he wanted to see in that moment and yet he could no longer avoid it. Dredging a breath from the soles of his boots, he turned the door handle and stepped into the office.

"Severus." Albus' voice was soft but held the weight of many years. "So glad you could come."

Severus was unable to respond. Instead he made his way to Minerva's chair and sat, hands cradled between his knees.

"How have you been?" Dumbledore inquired.

"Is this what you brought me here for? An exchange of pleasantries?" Snape muttered, eyes downcast.

"In some ways, yes." Albus replied gently. "I'm concerned about you."

"How fortunate I am to have garnered such 'concern,'" Severus ground out bitterly.

Dumbledore sighed. "Indeed, too little too late perhaps. I cannot tell you how much I regret . . . "

"Enough!" Snape hissed. "I didn't come here to give you absolution. Or to stomach your excuses . . ."

"No, no excuses, Severus." Dumbledore's voice was placid, calming. "But a long, overdue apology for everything that happened between us . . . perhaps . . . "

Severus' head snapped up, eyes swimming with pain.

"—does your apology include the day when Potter and Black set me up so Lupin could rip me apart under the Whomping Willow? When I was nearly clawed to death by that fucking wolf, and ended up in the infirmary for two weeks? When you merely slapped them on the wrist for their actions, and I was told . . . no, _ordered . . ._ to keep silent about it? Your precious marauders. You _protected_ them. You _treasured_ them. And what of me? A mere piece of trash from a poor milltown . . . _Severus will get over it. Severus will keep silent_ . . . there's a _good_ boy, there's our _fucking whipping boy . . ._ "

Dumbledore's eyes filled with tears. He shook his head and gazed downward. So much pain. And from something that happened over thirty years ago. He had a feeling this was just the very tip of it, the finest thread unraveled from the coils of pain wrapped around Snape's tortured soul.

"My dear boy," Dumbledore slowly started. "Please tell me what I can do to help you. You're in pain. It's evident. What can I do to help?"

"It's too late, "Snape rasped, his outburst having left his throat constricted. "Whatever has happened between us . . . is done. It cannot be undone. And my decisions and choices now are my own. No one is master over me. Not anymore."

"But, Severus, please truly think about this. You are hardly the master over your life. Not when it is you who is now inflicting so much harm upon yourself. You've become enslaved to your own whims, to your own unhealthy appetites . . . "

"And so what if I am?" Severus growled. "At least, these are MY choices. Not yours, not the fucking Marauders, not that bastard Voldemort's . . . these are MINE. My own!"

"And at what price?" Dumbledore asked softly.

Snape paused a moment, running his hand shakily though his hair. "I . . . I don't know," he whispered more to himself than to the portrait.

He thought back to what Minerva had told him. About the lies he'd been telling himself. It clearly wasn't only he who was paying the price. He'd drawn numerous others into his wanton destruction.

 _At what price indeed._

He had fallen to such depths that he couldn't see a way out. He wallowed in the filth of the living grave which he himself had dug. _Not Dumbledore. Not the marauders. Not his parents. Not even the Dark Lord._

 _But he himself._

And he wanted out. So very fucking badly. So very fucking much.

He just couldn't fathom _how_.


	10. Seducation

The chill hit her as soon as Hermione stumbled out of the apparition point. The uneven ground that fell away beneath her boots caused her to stagger a good few steps before she was able to lift her eyes to take in the surroundings. It may be remote Scotland but it was far from desolate—rich, rolling green hills as far as the eye could see, fading into the distant, dusky peaks of a mountain range. Turning slowly, she took in clusters of craggy grey boulders, huddled together like sentries on the hill above her, and one pillar in particular, dark and absolutely still except for a coil of smoke drifting over his left shoulder.

Hermione's heart sank. She'd hoped to arrive before him—to choose the perfect vantage point from which to look down upon him as he attempted to orientate himself. Unfortunately it was now she who was left to stumble over the tufts of wet grass, slipping constantly as she lost traction. Trust him to choose the steepest bloody point to position himself. It was probably what she would have done, the best position from which to survey the surroundings, but since it was him and since he was a colossal bastard, it was now a deliberate ploy to unhinge her.

By the time she reached him, breath puffing out in thick clouds, she was feeling distinctly hot under the collar. He held his cigarette pinched between his thumb and index finger, sucking in a deep lungful as his coal black eyes appraised her.

As she stood panting at him, she realized that she had absolutely nothing that she wanted to say, and since he made no attempt to acknowledge her in return, simply releasing the smoke in slow, cool drifts, she just turned away, awkwardly thumbing the straps of her backpack as she surveyed the scenery. There wasn't a road in sight—or even a path. But a river shimmered in the distance as it snaked its way through the hills to their right.

She was totally disoriented. A detailed map was in her bag but she didn't want to fumble around for it in front of him. He probably knew exactly where they were but she wasn't going to ask. The only communication they'd had prior to the trip was a lone piece of parchment on her desk, his neat handwriting informing her of the apparition point and meeting time.

They hadn't even discussed equipment, probably doubling up on everything—although the leather satchel he wore slung casually over one shoulder didn't appear to contain a lot. Her eyes flickered surreptitiously over him—he'd probably shrunk everything to atomic size—he could have the Taj Mahal of tents in there for all she knew. In fact, she couldn't imagine him getting by without a suite of lavish comforts. There was probably even some horny, drunken slut rolling around in there.

Hermione knew her current train of thoughts was unhelpful but he was already pissing her off. She'd hoped he would be awkward out here—totally out of place in his tailored suits and open shirts but he wasn't. He wore a faded pair of black jeans that unfortunately fit him like a glove and a black woollen coat with a high collar under which he'd cinched a grey scarf of such fine knit that she found herself wanting to reach out and touch it. His raven hair had been tangled by the brisk breeze but it just made him look windswept and slightly rugged, unlike the self-strangling tumbleweed she knew hers was desperately trying to emulate.

Finally, when the awkwardness had reached nosebleed heights, she capitulated.

"Do you know where we're going?"

He gave her a disparaging look before disappearing the cigarette butt with a flick of his fingers and starting in long confident strides back down the hill. _He might have saved her the fucking trek_ , she fumed as she slithered back down after him. Hands thrust deep in his coat pockets, he turned at a gully near the bottom and started in the direction of the distant river. Although there were no distinct paths, there were well-worn animal trails and it was one of these that he led them along.

Hermione settled in behind him and was relieved to find that he set a comfortable pace, allowing her to keep up relatively easily. She might have even been able to walk beside him if she'd wanted to converse but she didn't. Forgoing any communication was going to make the trip decidedly difficult but perhaps that was all that could be hoped for after their blighted past—a brief look around before returning to Parsons with nothing of significance to report.

As she trudged along, Hermione focused on the thick-soled black boots striding ahead of her, but it wasn't long before her eyes had slipped up and she found herself staring at the swinging curve of his denim-clad buttocks. She was instantly annoyed at herself. The last thing she wanted was to be ogling him, any part of him, and yet she'd already found herself reluctantly admiring bits of him more than once.

She really must be depraved. This bastard had tried to demean, intimidate and, ultimately, throttle her. She couldn't afford to drop her guard with him at any point, so positioning herself directly behind his hypnotic arse was not a good idea. If only she knew where they were heading, she might be able to lead the way. Then he could watch _her_ arse. _No, that'd be worse_. At least she had a modicum of self-control. He was a total loose cannon. Or had a totally loose cannon. _Actually, that's still unhelpful, 'Mione_.

Sighing, Hermione lifted her head to focus on the countryside. It really was stunning. And of course it reminded her of her years at Hogwarts. The crisp air, low grey skies and billiard table green filled her with a level of nostalgia she'd not felt in years. It made her appreciate the opportunity to be away from London, even if it was with the last person on earth with whom she would want to share the occasion.

They continued winding for some time along the base of the hills until they eventually came to a flattened area where Snape suddenly stopped. He frowned at what appeared to be a small rock positioned in the centre of a grassy expanse. Cautiously he approached, looking upward to scan the sky in both directions. Hermione hadn't a clue what he was looking for.

When they reached the small mound, Hermione saw that it wasn't a rock but a sheep lying on its side—dead. They hadn't seen any other animals so this lone one, bereft of life, seemed a little unusual, but there were probably farms nearby that it could have strayed from or this could even be a common grazing area, it was certainly large and flat enough.

Despite no obvious sign of trauma, Snape continued to frown.

"What is it?"

"A sheep," he responded drily.

Hermione only just held in a nasty retort.

"Why are we looking at it?" She enunciated each word.

He didn't respond but squatted nearby, running a hand over the grass.

Hermione huffed. "Are you going to explain your sudden fascination with a dead sheep—one that could have died of natural causes for all we know?"

He lifted his eyes to hers, arching a dark eyebrow before standing and walking over to the animal. Digging a boot into its stomach, he pulled upwards.

"Shit!" Hermione gasped, bringing a hand to her lips.

The sheep was totally empty, devoid of internal organs—effectively an empty woollen shell.

There was something else strange about it. "Where's the blood?"

"Cauterised," he replied, eyes roving over the carcass, taking in everything.

There was only one animal she knew of that could do such a thing.

"You think a dragon did this?"

"It did."

"Where are the scorch marks?"

She realized then, that Snape must have been looking for them earlier when he was studying the ground.

"It's been moved."

Instinctively, Hermione knew he was right. Concealing dragon activity from Muggles was extremely difficult and involved a lot of Obliviation, animal replacement and removal of evidence. However, this didn't appear to be the work of anyone from the Ministry. They would never leave a carcass out in the open like this.

"I've never heard of dragons feeding on internal organs exclusively—they usually eat the meat too, in fact that's all most of them eat. Are we dealing with new dragon behaviours?"

"No." Snape let the sheep's stomach fall closed. "We're dealing with new dragons." His dark eyes flickered across the horizon before he turned away and continued in long, swift strides down the trail toward the river.

Hermione's head was suddenly abuzz with a hundred questions she wanted to ask him but she was still extremely wary—he was hardly forthcoming and she was still struggling to erase the image of Katie's excruciatingly enthusiastic blow job from her mind's eye.

But Snape's knowledge was surprising. Perhaps he hadn't just been fucking people in his office after all—maybe he'd actually been doing some work. In fact, his level of understanding made her own preparations look a little under-done. But it also encouraged her to consider the trends she'd been researching in a whole new light. And it turned out that she had plenty of time to think as he increased the pace of his strides until she had no choice but to fall behind, watching him draw away until he blended into a dark copse of trees nestled by the river.

Hermione slipped the wand from her sleeve, unable to shake the uneasiness that had captured her since the discovery of the grisly 'sheep shell.' The thought of dragons, hungry and ready to eviscerate, swooping out of the sky to snatch her away for a less than satisfying snack had her glancing over her shoulder every few steps. And if she did happen to be taken, it was possible that Snape wouldn't even know—considering that he'd now disappeared from view. Even if he was aware, she didn't expect that he'd bat an eyelid. He'd probably rejoice with a lazy cigarette or two before returning to report yet another unfortunate casualty of Ministry business.

The option of resigning resurfaced again in her mind. It wasn't too late. She could just stagger back up the hill, Apparate home and write the letter. At least she wouldn't have to worry about having her guts eaten, or having to deal with a man who was clearly looking to get as far away from her as possible. But the thought of giving up a role that she'd worked so hard at made her feel physically ill. It was unfair to be driven from it by some licentious interloper masquerading as a legitimate employee. At least that's what she would have thought before watching Sherlock Snape expertly dissecting the crime scene. Clearly the drugs and alcohol hadn't killed every brain cell in his head; he was still fucking smart. She scratched her own head with her wand in irritation. These circular arguments were useless for anything other than fucking her up. And she definitely didn't need to fuck herself up, not when she had someone with her who was more than capable of doing it.

Reluctantly, she quickened her pace. The sooner she reached the protection of the trees, the better she'd feel. However, as she approached, the spooky silence of the shadowy trees, spindly and twisted like gnarled fingers, made her shiver. _Where was Snape?_ She thought about calling out but quickly decided against it. She didn't even know what to call him anymore. _'Hey, Asshole!'_ didn't seem quite right. Padding her way between the trunks, she suddenly caught a whiff of smoke. Torn between being pissed off and relieved, she followed the scent through to the other side of the narrow forest, which opened into a clearing beside the river. Snape was there, no longer smoking but still ignoring her as he stared intently at the ground.

"Are we crossing here?" she asked impatiently.

She may as well have not spoken. He moved forward a few paces before turning to look up the river. This whole silent detective routine was starting to wear thin. Hermione huffed expectantly but when she received no acknowledgement, she decided that she may as well get on with her own investigations. She was one of the most knowledgeable people in the Wizarding World about a diversity of flying beasts and she'd intended to take this opportunity to look for evidence to explain their declining numbers.

Turning slowly, she gazed up into the trees around her and soon noticed a small matted pocket attached to the trunk of one. It was a nest—mud mixed with feathers and river reeds. She immediately identified it as belonging to the Blue-throated Wyntle—a rare species and one whose numbers had declined dramatically in recent months. It wasn't the first time this had happened—Wyntles were highly sought after by smugglers as their magical song was sleep-inducing. A considerable profit could be made by poaching and selling them to desperate parents for their restless children. However, it seemed likely that something else was going on this time, especially since they weren't the only species on the decline.

She needed a closer look. Slinging her backpack to the ground, she glanced over her shoulder to see Snape poking about in the mud by the bank. He didn't appear to be using his wand at all. She wouldn't either. She'd climbed plenty of trees with Harry and Ron in the past. In fact, she was far better than either of them. Grasping the trunk, she wedged her toe into a small knot and lifted herself enough to grab the lowest branch. Swinging upwards, she grasped a higher branch with her other hand and found another depression for her foot. Pulling with her arms, she reached for the next branch up but suddenly her foot gave way and she slipped.

Flailing and kicking, she slid further until suddenly there was someone beneath her and a strong hand rammed up into her backside. In fact, there was a thumb now pressing between her pussy lips and four fingers on her arse, one between her cheeks.

She gasped in shock, glaring down, only to be met by a classic Snape eye-roll.

"Believe me, if I'd touched you there on purpose, you'd know about it," he muttered darkly.

Hermione felt herself flush scarlet before placing a foot on his shoulder and levering herself up. She heard a muttered, 'shit,' as she placed her other foot on his head and pushed up to grab the branch. Pulling herself into the tree, she refused to look down—perhaps if she ignored him, she could pretend that none of it had happened. But she could still feel the sensation of the intense and, apparently inadvertent, 'pussy clamp' and it was making her stomach turn somersaults.

Gathering herself with a few shaky breaths, she climbed the remaining branches until she was able to stand high enough to peer into the nest. It was empty—of birds at least. But there were remnants of eggshells and quite a large amount of blood. It was unlikely that the babies had hatched. They'd been killed by something and probably eaten. Few predators usually bothered with the Wyntle as they were tiny birds with little meat on them. If something had climbed into the tree to take these, it must be quite desperate—a worrying sign.

What was nearly as worrying, however, was the fact that Snape was already at least a hundred metres up the riverbank. Apparently he'd seen fit to leave her in the tree she'd nearly fallen out of. _What did that say about him?_ Possibly that he didn't appreciate receiving no thanks for saving her. Or that he didn't enjoy his head being trodden on. She'd been too flustered to respond appropriately and now she just looked like an ungrateful cow. No wonder he'd left.

Hermione pulled out her wand and cast Leviosa, lowering herself gently toward the ground until she landed safely. Grabbing up her pack, she jogged after Snape, wondering how she was going to get through the rest of the day with him, let alone a week . . . or more.

Hermione followed Severus for the remainder of the day, just keeping him in sight. She ate the sandwich she'd packed as she walked, fearful that if she stopped, she'd lose him altogether. As the sun sank in the sky, it turned even colder and Hermione became worried that he would keep walking despite the fading light.

Finally, she reached the peak of a hill to find herself in a clearing where Snape had already lit a fire and was flicking his wand over a pile on the ground which gradually unfolded, growing into an impressive looking tent. Hermione approached, dumping her bag on the ground before collapsing in a heap, utterly exhausted but glad for the warmth of the crackling fire. She closed her eyes, unable to recall the last time she felt so tired. Or so alone. Snape had the uncanny ability of making her feel more alone that she would if she were actually alone. He'd mastered the art of snubbing and was obviously determined to make her feel well and truly snubbed.

After a few minutes, she managed to prise her eyes open to see Snape's tent up and a warm light glowing within. Through the doorway she could just make out a comfortable looking armchair and his dark form reclining within—a glass of amber liquid in his hand and a pile of parchment on his lap. She could have cried. He was all competent and comfortable, and she was a haggard mess, lying on the damp grass, barely able to move. It was supposed to be the other way around. _Wasn't he the one who'd lost the plot—who was supposed to be spiraling toward some inexorable extinction?_

Reluctantly, she pushed herself up, staggering as she returned to her aching feet. Grabbing her pack, she pulled out her shrunken tent before tossing it onto the ground, a safe distance from his. Muttering a few incantations, she expanded it into a single-man size before managing to transfigure the cloth walls, so that they reached a two-man size, giving her a little more room. Her transfiguration skills weren't even close to those of Snape's whose two room, full height, tent mansion made hers look like a comparative slum, but this was the best she could hope for in her current state. Pulling out a tiny sleeping mat, she enlarged it until it was her length and then transfigured it so that it was more like a blow-up mattress; not particularly comfortable but, again, as good as it was going to get. Tossing the mattress into the tent, she threw a sleeping bag and pillow in after it before carrying her pack back over to the fire and pulling out the camping stove.

She was starving. Luckily the stove was magical and would cook her food far quicker than any fire. In no time she'd pulled out a knife, chopping board, meat and vegetables. Tossing some minced beef into the pan, she followed with onions and garlic before adding chopped vegetables, a tin of tomatoes, herbs and seasoning. Carving up a loaf of bread into chunks, she buttered it. Moments later, everything was ready.

Hermione transfigured her spoon into a ladle and slopped a large serving onto her plate before sitting cross-legged by the fire, about to dip her bread into the mouth-watering sauce. Then she looked up. Snape was still in his chair. The glass in his hand was empty. She doubted he'd eaten. In fact, she hadn't seen him eat anything the entire day. _Maybe he planned to survive on a steady diet of cigarettes and alcohol alone?_

She didn't have another large plate, so she took her bowl from her bag and filled it with stew before placing two pieces of bread on a small plate, grabbing a fork and carrying it through to his tent.

He didn't look up as she stood awkwardly in the tent opening.

"I thought you might be hungry," she mumbled before stepping in and placing the bowl and plate on the small table beside him.

Without waiting for a response, she retreated—as though delivering feed to some volatile, wild animal. And in some ways he was—she found him quite unfathomable. Returning to the fire, she resumed her seat and devoured her dinner with relish. It was one of the most enjoyable meals she'd consumed in a long time. A day of exercise in the freshest of air had heightened her hunger and senses. There was something to be said for simplicity and gratitude.

"Thank you."

Hermione jumped at his voice. She certainly hadn't expected gratitude in return—not from him. He was holding out the clean dishes to her.

"That was quite—" He seemed to be searching for a word that was clearly foreign, "—tasty."

 _Tasty?_ Hermione nearly laughed. That was definitely not a word she expected to come out of his mouth.

"You're welcome." She gave a small smile before dipping her eyes back to her plate, wiping a crust through the remaining sauce.

When she'd polished off every scrap, licking the last morsel from her thumb, she discovered that he'd moved a stump of wood over to the fire opposite her and was now sitting with his back propped against it. Hermione watched as he reached into his pocket and brought out a small book, flipping it open to the middle before starting to read, his brow furrowing in concentration. The glow from the fire cast his skin in bronze, all except the dark locks that fell across his brow and his mouth which was lost in the shadow of his prominent nose. Again, she was surprised. For some reason she'd imagined that when he'd cast aside his past life, he'd rejected all that it included. The idea of him still being an avid reader was comforting—as though some of the old Snape might still be in there.

Hermione quickly cleaned away the dishes before packing away the stove and retrieving a book from her own bag. It was one Ginny had loaned her. They didn't always share tastes so it was a bit of a risk bringing it with her but being a collection of short stories, she reasoned that if she didn't fancy one, she could always move on to another. As it turned out, the stories were very well written and she was soon so lost in them, she completely forgot where she was. When she came to a funny part she laughed out loud, and was surprised to hear a deep voice respond.

"I enjoyed that one too."

Her eyes snapped up to see him looking at her, a curious expression on his face, the corner of his mouth hitched up in the ghost of a smile.

"You've read this?"

He nodded.

She couldn't think of anything remotely suitable to say. "Oh . . . okay."

His eyes lingered on her a moment longer before returning to his book. Hermione's insides squirmed. She tried to focus on the words but could no longer concentrate. All she could think about was inexplicably enjoying sharing the warmth and light of a fire, and appreciating a good book, with the person she'd all but wished dead less than twenty-four hours earlier. As she turned the thought over and over like an overcooked pancake, he rose and shoved the book back in his pocket. Distractedly, he turned away and headed with quick strides into the darkness. She sat up straight, wondering what on earth he was doing, but then heard him in the distance, chanting the incantation for a security ward.

She let out the breath she'd been holding. It was reassuring to think that they would be protected during the night but also concerning that she was still unsure what he was protecting them from. _Had he heard something? Sensed something?_ He was away for some time and when he returned, he delivered her only a brief nod before entering his tent and closing the door with a quick flick of the zipper.

Hermione stared at the fire. There was so much she wanted to say to him, so much she wanted to know, but there was such a weight of blighted history between them that any attempt to broach it she sensed would break the tenuous thread that now hung between them. Sighing, she doused the flames and cast Lumos to locate her toothbrush and toothpaste in the pocket of her pack.

And that's when she found it. The small blue bottle—Ginny's Amory potion. _How the fuck had she managed to get it into her bag?_

If the fire had still been ablaze, she would have thrown it in there, smashed it to smithereens. _Why would she want to lust after Snape? How would that help her? Or him?_ She was furious but she shoved it back into the pocket. How dare Ginny tell her she was in need of a damn good fucking. She wasn't that desperate. Not desperate at all in fact.

Angrily, she brushed her teeth before crawling into the tent and pulling the zipper closed behind her. Rolling about awkwardly in the close confines of her tiny canvas shell, she finally managed to change into her pajamas. She fucking hated tents. They didn't hold any good memories for her. And now she was alone in one, more claustrophobic than her bedroom, and sleeping on a fucking blow up—

"Shit!"

Hermione quickly re-lit her wand before dropping it onto her bed. Instead of a hard plastic mattress, there was a soft, downy one—thick and positively luxurious. Snape must have done it.

A lump swelled in her throat as she slipped into her sleeping bag and tugged her pillow under her head. The sense of her weary bones being cradled within the soft warmth made her melt.

"Thank you," she croaked, her voice so small, she wasn't even sure if he'd heard.

But as she descended rapidly into sleep she thought she heard something—a voice, low and sonorous, drifting on the light breeze. "You're welcome."


	11. Lavishaggadelic

_Polite._ That's how Hermione would describe the following three days. She made a concerted effort not to do anything to deliberately piss him off and he slowed down sufficiently for her to walk at a more comfortable pace—even if he did always remain ahead of her. They still weren't talking much, apart from the most rudimentary conversations about when to eat and where to camp. She was still unsure of specifically where they were headed, although they continued to follow the river upstream which, according to her map, would eventually lead them to the mountain range that she'd first glimpsed upon her arrival.

It _did_ seem ridiculous—no, it _was_ ridiculous that they hadn't managed to discuss anything more important than who was going to collect drinking water from the river or who was going to light the fire. And, bizarrely, as time went on, despite feeling more and more comfortable in his presence, she felt less and less willing to engage in anything but the superficial. She was somehow reluctant to shatter the companionable silence that they now shared—the enjoyment of eating together (her cooking of course), reading by the fire and even playing chess with some small river stones he'd collected when she was eating lunch and a board he'd somehow fashioned from a flat piece of bark using his wand.

He always won—but she'd come close. And while he was excellent at bluffing, she'd recently picked up on a tell-tale twitch just above his eyebrow. She was normally a very competitive person but each time he defeated her, inclining his head in mock humility which was instantly betrayed by the subtle twitch of his lips, she felt herself being drawn to him. Ginny was right, intelligence was hugely attractive to her, and witnessing the inner workings of his mind, played out on a bark board with a mess of pebbles, was enough to have her feeling uncomfortably aroused by the time she finally wriggled into bed at night.

She'd managed to fight off the urge to masturbate but it was taking longer and longer for her body to calm down sufficiently for her to fall asleep. She couldn't masturbate—not when the source of her arousal was separated from her by two flimsy sheets of canvas. And then there was the fact that the man had fucked her friends, and no doubt her friend's friends, and her friend's friends families, and her friend's friends families tennis partners . . . basically he was a rampant slut.

But as she lay in bed, she realised that she'd come to understand why women flocked to him. Despite everything he had done, and all of her efforts, she didn't hate him—she couldn't. In fact, it was all she could do to stop herself from ogling him—including that morning when he'd appeared out of his tent wearing a form-fitting thermal top. As he shrugged on his coat, she couldn't help but watch appreciatively as his broad shoulders and the contours of his pectoral muscles bounced. Yep, she'd become a perv.

She hated to admit it but Ginny was right. He was sexually attractive—sexy, in fact. It wasn't a word she'd ever used to describe anyone—the sort of banter that some flirty bimbo would throw around, but for some reason, with Snape it fit, like those faded denim jeans, it fit so . . . damn . . . well. And for a change he was doing nothing to flaunt it. That's probably what made him all the more enticing. No sleazy one-liners or lascivious winks, no open collars and casual sauntering, just him being considerate, capable and sometimes quite brilliant—and having a really hot arse.

When Hermione woke on the fifth morning and staggered blearily from her tent, she was surprised to discover that he wasn't already there, heating up the water for their morning cup of tea. They'd set up camp late the previous evening and she hadn't had a particularly good sense of her surroundings. Now she realised that the terrain was substantially rockier than their earlier campsites. They'd climbed a considerable distance the previous day and were closing in on the shadows of the picturesque mountains which rose beyond the plain behind their camp.

Hermione decided that if he wasn't going to do it, she'd boil the water herself. Grabbing a container, she headed for the river. As she approached, she realised that the sound of rushing water was much louder than usual, but it wasn't until she tottered down the bank to the edge that she realised why. There was a waterfall. And standing almost completely naked under the cascading water, was Snape.

She felt the air escape her like a deflating balloon. There was no other word for it. He was . . . beautiful. His pale marble-like skin contrasted starkly with the dark basalt backdrop of the falls and his lithe form, lean and muscular, slid from pose to pose like some anatomical Adonis. But the reality was that he was simply washing, biceps rolling as he slid his fingers through his slick dark locks. His eyes were closed and the slight parting of his lips as he leaned into the powerful surge of the falls told her he was enjoying a moment.

Severus welcomed the sting of the water as it pummelled his body. It was practically liquid ice but it sang through his senses like no drug he'd ever known. The first few days had been hard—near fucking impossible. He'd been on the verge of downing his entire alcohol supply in one colossal bender. But now the haze was lifting and this morning was the best he'd felt in . . . well, it had to be years.

Rolling his neck, letting the water pound out the strain of days of walking, he wondered how he'd become so remote from this. In the past, he'd often sought out the welcome solitude of the Scottish wilderness when his life had become too difficult. On occasions he'd spent night after night out here, alone under the stars, gaining perspective on how infinitesimal his life and his problems really were and how monumental the expanse of an expanding and unfathomable universe really was.

He felt himself reconnecting, returning back to that from which he had come. It was both humbling and cleansing. And if he wasn't so apprehensive about what the future held, he'd let the entire experience draw him in. But there were reasons why he couldn't let go—not completely. And as he cracked his eyes open through the blurry rush of water he saw one of them. Miss . . . Granger.

She was crouched by the river, pretending to be consumed by filling the water container but her eyes were on him. They flickered over him as though unsure of what to look at first. Perhaps he should help her. Lifting both arms and allowing them to relax over his head, he clenched his abdominal muscles, causing the water to sluice down the front of his boxer shorts, dragging them down even lower.

Her mouth dropped open. That mouth. He gritted his jaw, trying to force back the tide of feelings that had been building with each passing day. She was off limits. Completely.

McGonagall's threat was legitimate. She would protect Granger—that he was sure of. There had been no explicit indication of what she'd meant when she'd instructed him to look after the girl, but her disapproval of his lifestyle suggested that it included avoiding anything 'unsavoury'—which was a pity because the thing he was most in need of right now was a good, hard fuck. He might be reconnecting with nature but his libido hadn't diminished whatsoever. In fact, the bracing atmosphere made him feel more potent and virile than ever.

Sliding his gaze over her, he watched as she lifted the container to her lips, gulping down deep mouthfuls until it overflowed, trickling down her chin.

"Shit," he ground out, averting his gaze as his cock began to throb.

McGonagall wasn't the only reason he needed to keep her at a distance. There were too many other danger signs. The incident in the den was one of them. His inexplicable attraction to her behind a patently superficial glamour was a concern. But worse was the fact that he'd known, deep down he'd known from the taste of her—sweet, untainted, that she hadn't been drugged—she wasn't even drunk. And yet he hadn't been able to stop himself. He'd been drooling at the prospect of consuming her. It had all gone to shit after that but he still remembered the feel of his body pressed against hers, his tongue sliding around inside her.

"Sweet Circe," Hermione murmured. His black boxers were now stretched taut around his groin. It might have been the effect of the water dragging at him but as the sheer material hugged his contours, leaving very little to the imagination, she blushed at the realization that he certainly appeared to be very . . . pronounced.

She had no reason to stay now that she'd filled the container and consumed far more water than her level of thirst warranted. But she didn't seem to be able to drag her eyes away. She wanted to imprint this image on her mind, to remind herself when he was a complete asshole again, that he did have a few . . . redeeming features.

He watched as she turned, her eyes sliding back over him before they finally dropped away and she returned up the bank. That look was also a concern—it burned straight down to his cock. But what troubled him far more than anything else about her was the fact that he enjoyed her company—simply being close to her. In his entire pathetic life, he'd only been that comfortable with one other. He'd dropped his guard and allowed himself to hope for something more. And look how that had ended. Spectacularly . . . fucking . . . badly.

No matter what the feeble remnants of his past self wanted, he would never allow such foolish thoughts to dictate his actions again. He no longer believed in fairy tales. He believed in horror stories. And they were as dark and desolate as he'd ever imagined. He hadn't told her, but this trip would be deadly—he was certain of it. And despite the newfound clarity of his thoughts, he still knew that it was the simplest solution to his problems. To all of their problems.

* * *

 _He didn't deserve to look so good_. Hermione vigorously stirred the porridge on the camping stove. After the amount of abuse he'd put his body through, there was no way it should look like that—all supple and toned, like some bloody athlete. _What was he? The world record holder in the hundred metre hump?_ _A Master of the pole vault? Breast stroke champion of the world?_

Hermione realised she was breathing too heavily; she needed to curb her thoughts in case he read them upon his return. However, it turned out that she needn't have been concerned about him reading anything. He didn't look at her at all as he passed, striding casually to his tent before rummaging around inside for a protracted period.

When he emerged, he still didn't look at her, crouching down to his satchel as he spoke over his shoulder.

"I need to attend to something. Perhaps you could wait here?"

She was silent for a moment, watching him pulling items from his satchel and dropping them into his pockets. "Oh . . . okay," she replied haltingly.

Before she could say any more, he was up and tramping away toward the rocky plain between their tent and the foothills that would take them into the mountains.

Hermione dropped the spoon back into the porridge and slid back on her stump. _What was going on? Was he embarrassed?_ He certainly didn't seem shy about his body but it was always possible. Now she was worried that the scene at the waterfall may have set back their meagre progress. She really didn't want to go back to the extreme discomfort of their previous interactions. It was just too exhausting.

Sighing heavily, she dished herself up a serve of porridge but soon realised that her appetite had gone so quickly disappeared it before grabbing her pack and heading back down to the river. She'd noticed on the climb over the past few days that the reed nests of many river birds had been destroyed. She wasn't convinced, however, that it was purposeful. Rather, they appeared to have been carelessly trampled but she'd yet to observe clear footprints to determine what might be responsible. Trekking further down the length of the bank, she came to a low, muddy area. As she knelt for a closer look, she was surprised to see that it had been churned up by a host of overlapping prints—far more than previous. Then she saw it, in the centre was a print that was huge—giant in fact. It was too human-like to be anything else—it had to be a troll.

Hermione thought about Snape and where he may have gone. Standing, she chewed her bottom lip as she surveyed the river bank, wondering if she should follow him. If she did, when he'd asked her not to, he might get angry—and an angry Snape wasn't something she wanted to behold ever again. She decided to return to camp to see if he was back. But when she crested the hill, the clearing was empty. No Snape. Throwing down her pack, she pulled out her book and sat to read it. But after re-reading the same paragraph for the twentieth time she tossed it back into her bag and began her classic 'agitated Hermione' pacing, back and forth, arms crossed.

"Fuck it." She suddenly turned and headed in the direction that Snape had gone. If something happened that she could have prevented, she wouldn't forgive herself.

Earlier, she'd watched him as he'd gradually receded into the distance and so she now had a reasonably good idea of where he'd headed. She continued across the plain for some time, dodging boulders and clumps of long grass before skirting around to the right behind a large outcropping of stones.

Then she stopped, mouth agape.

Snape was there. And in his arms was a blonde woman. Hermione couldn't fucking believe it. _Trust Snape to be able to locate a willing woman in the middle of the fucking Scottish Wilds! He was impossible!_

She couldn't do this anymore. With a strangled cry, Hermione turned and ran back to the camp.

"Fucking stupid, fucking, fucking, bloody buggery asshole bastard!" she choked, as she started pulling things from her tent. Furiously, she tried to cast the shrinking spell but she was too angry to do it properly. Her pillow and sleeping bag kept leaping about on the ground but didn't change size at all.

"Fucking stupid, shitty Diminuendo," she hissed, casting it again and again until everything was covered with dirt and grass.

"Just fucking shrink, you—"

"Hermione?"

She knew that voice.

Spinning around she saw the woman. And instantly felt like collapsing in a pile of utter ridiculousness.

"Luna?"

Luna's luminous smile reached her and Hermione couldn't stop the tears that began trickling down her cheeks.

"Come here you silly Leanbh." Luna opened her arms wide and drew her into a warm, tight hug that made Hermione feel even more childish, but still she clung on, unwilling to let her friend go.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione sniffed, leaning back to give her a watery smile.

"I'm about to end nearly three months out here. I thought I'd drop in to see you before I head home."

Luna worked for the Ministry and was responsible for much of the data that came in but she spent such long stints in the field that Hermione was struggling to remember the last time she saw her.

"But how did you know where we were?"

Luna dumped her pack on the ground. "I'll tell you over a cup of tea, I'm gasping for one."

Hermione quickly wiped her hands across her cheeks and set to boiling some water, retrieving the cups that she and Snape used. After filling their cups, she sat next to Luna who had pulled Snape's wooden stump over beside hers.

"So how _did_ you find us?" Hermione repeated.

"The Thestrals— they guided me here."

"Really?"

"No, not really. Katie Bell Owled me to say that you were out here and suggested I check in on you."

Hermione snorted quietly. "I'm sure she did. And how would _she_ know where we are?"

"The Ministry has a Locator on you. Katie just sent me the directions."

Hermione gazed into her mug thoughtfully.

"I didn't kiss him if you're wondering."

Hermione's eyes flashed up to see Luna grinning, a mischievous glint in her silvery eyes.

"Wha . . . what?" Hermione balked. "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about," she mumbled, before slurping her tea loudly.

"He told me," Luna said, sipping her own.

"Who?"

"Severus."

"Severus?"

"Yes, the man you've been travelling with for the past four days." Luna raised her blonde eyebrows.

"He told you what?"

"When we saw you running away, he said you'd think he was kissing me and that you'd be angry and probably packing up to leave. He told me to explain things to you."

Hermione humphed derisively but she was thrown by the suggestion that Snape might have insight into anything at all.

"And what 'things' might need 'explaining'?"

"Well." Luna crossed her legs which were covered in colourful layers of knitted material. "When I came through the Apparition point on the plains, I caught sight of Severus around by the rocks. I went over to see him and we got talking and sort of lost track of time."

"Talking? Snape?"

"Yes, he speaks. Didn't you know?" Luna smiled.

"No, actually, I didn't." Hermione blinked, quite taken aback.

"Obviously he's concerned about this trip—about your safety."

" _Snape_ told you that?" Hermione was incredulous.

"No, the Thestrals told me."

"Really?

"No, of course not," Luna laughed, high and soft. "It was him—Severus."

Hermione was getting increasingly frustrated by her friend's quirkiness. "So why do you keep saying that it was the Thestrals?"

"The point I'm making," Luna leaned forward and put a hand on her knee, "is that magic isn't the answer to everything. It's communication, Hermione. You just need to care enough to ask."

"I do care," Hermione rasped, bowing her head.

"That's obvious," Luna squeezed her. "But you don't like being vulnerable. I understand that. But he's vulnerable too. He's hurting."

Hermione sighed. "Yes, but there's nothing I can do about that."

"A hug wouldn't hurt," Luna said. "That's what we were doing when you saw us—the perfect balm for a tortured soul."

"A hug? I doubt that would ever be enough for a man like him."

"You'd be surprised," said Luna, draining her cup and standing. "He's a very good hugger. Extremely heartfelt."

Hermione looked unconvinced.

"I might just have to give him another on the way back," grinned Luna. "Being squeezed against a chest like that certainly isn't the worst thing in the world."

Hermione's mouth curled into a reluctant smile. Talking to Luna had always been a revelation. It was just a matter of separating the wackiness from the wisdom.


	12. Sensualicious

A/N: The reviews seem to have gone wonky again but they usually fix up after a few days. I usually PM people with responses but want to thank all of the guest reviewers for their comments and feedback. I can't respond to you personally but I really do appreciate it. DSx

* * *

When he returned, Hermione was ready. Although it was only midday, they were at a high enough altitude for it to be permanently cold so Hermione had re-lit the fire and collected enough fuel for a good many hours. She hadn't eaten since dinner the previous evening, and she doubted he had, so she'd cooked up the eggs and bacon she'd been saving for when she really wanted it, keeping it fresh in her bag the entire time with a cooling spell. She'd even opened the ground coffee she'd collected from her favourite café the morning before she arrived, and brewed them both a steaming cup.

He slowed his pace as he walked into the camp, instantly wary.

"Would you like to take a seat?" Hermione gave a cheery smile, gesturing to his armchair which she'd moved out of his tent so that it now sat beside the fire next to her own—a less elegant version made from a transfigured wood stump but sufficiently padded with her pillow to be comfortable.

"What did Miss Lovegood tell you?" he asked stiffly.

"Nothing that I didn't already know," Hermione replied airily, carrying the small table out of his tent and placing it between their chairs before setting the plates of food and cups on it.

"I thought you might be ready to start walking?" He raised an inquiring eyebrow. He still hadn't moved.

"We're not walking today," Hermione stated matter-of-factly.

"Aren't we?" The words rolled slowly out of his mouth.

"No, we're talking."

Hermione plonked herself down in her seat, placed her plate on her lap and jabbed her fork into an egg slightly overzealously but she was determined to make this work. She wouldn't look at him. It was up to him to make the next move.

She'd eaten an entire egg, strip of bacon and half a slice of toast before she saw him approach out of the corner of her eye. A whole host of conflicting thoughts were, no doubt, racing through his head—to say nothing for how he would be feeling. She knew this wasn't a comfortable situation for him—a woman taking the lead, but she needed to have it out with him once and for all. Otherwise, she was going to walk straight to the Apparition point that Luna had taken, and leave.

He halted in front of his seat. She felt him watching her. He was one of the only people she knew whose stare was actually palpable, but she remained unperturbed, doggedly focused on enthusiastically consuming another mouthful of egg. Eventually he sank into his seat and, after a few moments more, collected his plate and cutlery from the table and started to eat. After a few mouthfuls he reached for the coffee. She heard him inhale deeply as he brought it to his lips. It was the blend he drank every morning at home. She didn't think she'd chosen it on purpose at the time, but it wasn't her usual blend—maybe she had foreseen wanting to share it with him despite the fraught nature of their relationship back then.

They ate in silence, pleasant waves of heat from the fire, melding with the watery sunshine that filtered through the clouds. When she'd finished, Hermione sat back in contentment, simply staring into the flames. She would normally be riddled with anxiety at the prospect of a looming confrontation but she realised that they'd reached rock bottom and there was really only one direction that it could take. And even if he refused to speak with her, she was comfortable with her decision to leave. She would have done everything in her power to appease him . . . well almost everything.

When he set his empty plate back on the table, he saw him fishing around in his pocket for his cigarettes before making to stand.

"You don't have to leave," she told him quickly. "I don't mind."

He looked at her uncertainly, his dark eyes studying her for a disconcertingly long period before he relaxed back into his seat and slid one out, lighting it with a flick of his index finger. As he took a deep drag, she noticed his eyelids fluttering faintly with pleasure. It was clearly an avenue of such intense enjoyment for him, she felt slightly bad for wishing to deprive him of it.

"How long have you smoked?"

He inhaled until his chest was fully inflated, before exhaling slowly.

"Over thirty years now."

Hermione's eyes grew wide. "Over 30 years?"

She couldn't understand how she'd never sensed it in the entire time she'd been under his tuition at Hogwarts. "That would mean you started as a child . . . "

He stared into the fire as though recalling. "I was around nine or so, yes."

She watched as he took another drag, trying to imagine a very young version of him doing the same.

"That seems terribly young. What was it, peer pressure?"

He snorted gently, smoke curling from his nostrils.

"Where I came from—a working class mill town in the sixties—there were certain rites of passage that brought one into manhood . . . or what was perceived as manhood." He blinked slowly in what seemed like a reluctant reconnection with his underprivileged past. "Smoking was merely one of those."

Hermione studied him—wondering at his dispassionate recall. His upbringing was clearly vastly different to hers. She'd basically been a spoilt only child, living in a 'good part' of the country, wealthy enough to have just about whatever she wanted. Despite their differences, she found herself craving an understanding of his past.

"And the other rites? What were they?"

Severus took another slow puff from his cigarette as though contemplating his next admission. "There was the first time one took a drink of hard liquor. The first time one used fists in a street fight, and the first time one . . ." He paused, searching for the right words. ". . . experienced a woman."

Hermione tried not to react despite the prickling sensation that crawled from her spine into her scalp.

"I see, "she said, feigning nonchalance. "So . . . how old were you when you . . . experienced those . . . milestones?"

He turned in his chair then, tilting his body to face her as he rested the fingertips holding his cigarette against the plane of his jaw.

"Tell me what she told you—Miss Lovegood."

 _Quid pro quo?_ Hermione supposed it was only fair. He'd been surprisingly honest and forthcoming about himself so far.

"She told me that you were concerned about this trip and about my safety." She faced him squarely. "Is that true?"

His eyes searched her face, as though trying to trust her.

"Yes."

"I want you to tell me why we're here."

He pinched his cigarette between his fingers before rubbing them together, disintegrating it into dust.

"I'm going to get a glass of something," he muttered.

"Make that two," Hermione interjected quickly.

When he looked into her flashing brown eyes, it was clear that she wasn't prepared to take 'no' for an answer. He sighed inwardly. This couldn't be a good idea—intimate conversation, reduced inhibitions. He wasn't usually cautious. In fact, in recent years he'd been completely unrestrained. But he felt a strong sense that things could progress further than either of them would otherwise allow—and he did feel a sense of responsibility for her.

She looked up at him expectantly, holding his gaze in a flagrant indication that she was more than capable of making her own decisions. _Fiery fucking Gryffindor_.

Giving a brief nod, he strode to his tent and returned with two glasses half-filled with liquor. He handed her one before resuming his seat. Throwing back a large gulp he grimaced as it burned a long strip down the back of his throat. She took a sip and only just managed to swallow before choking out her earlier statement, "Tell me why we're here."

He downed another mouthful, then turned his head in the direction of the mountains. When he finally spoke, it wasn't what she'd expected.

"Greyback was a diversion."

She frowned. "Fenrir Greyback?"

He didn't respond, continuing to stare into the distance.

"But he killed dozens of people, turned many more into werewolves." She looked at him doubtfully. "He carried out Voldemort's instructions with utter savagery—I saw it with my own eyes. How can you say he was a diversion?"

Severus returned his gaze to her. "Voldemort's control was an illusion. Greyback's real master remained hidden, sending instructions remotely. The Dark Lord allowed it. He didn't trust the werewolves sufficiently to bestow the Dark Mark but knew they would be valuable to his cause . . . and it furthered their own."

"Which was?"

"This." He inclined his head toward the mountains. "The dark beast uprising. An attempt to unite all magical creatures under the control of a single leader."

Hermione brow creased in puzzlement. "Are you saying that the uprising is happening here? In these mountains? The ones we've been approaching for five days?"

Severus took another gulp, finishing his glass.

"Accio!" The bottle flew through his open tent door and slapped into his palm. He refilled his glass and downed another mouthful.

"There's a complicated network of caverns within these mountains. That's where I believe they've been gathering since the end of the Second Wizarding War. It's been a slow build-up but the numbers are now such that they can no longer conceal the impact on the local species. That's why the populations of other creatures have been falling."

Hermione was stunned. She'd heard so many conflicting reports about the, so called, 'dark beast uprising' that she'd begun to question whether it was simply a rumour to keep people vigilant and continuing to work their arses off for the Ministry.

"Dark creatures have come from all over the world. The dragon that killed that sheep was likely to be a Scandinavian migrant. There's evidence here of others native to the Northern parts of Canada. Then there are the trolls, ogres and an army of ghouls."

"Army? How do you know?"

"Haven't you seen the footprints?"

She had discovered a large number of prints by the river but hadn't actually considered where they'd all come from.

"And, of course, there's the leader and his pack of werewolves."

"So the leader of all this is a werewolf?"

"I believe so." He necked the rest of the Firewhisky before placing his glass on the table.

Hermione stared into her own. It was an incredible story but it fit with everything they'd seen on their journey so far . . . everything except the eggs.

"None of those creatures are known to eat baby birds from their nests," she said.

"And there are snakes." Severus closed his eyes. "Big . . . fucking . . . snakes."

Hermione noticed how pale he was. She suspected that he had nightmares about snakes all the time—about the snake that nearly killed him.

"How do you know all this?"

He sighed, raising a weary hand. "That's what I've been doing this whole time—looking for prints, counting, measuring, trying to work out what we're dealing with and how many."

"And you've known about all this the whole time and not told me?" Hermione's voice was tight.

There was a long silence.

"You asked me about the rites of passage." Severus opened his eyes to look at her. "Growing up?"

She stared at him, simmering with hurt and anger.

"The first time I had a shot of this was when I was ten." He picked up the bottle and tilted it to and fro, allowing the viscous spirit to slip around the inside. "And shortly after, I had my first fight—had the shit kicked out of me by the local bully."

"Doesn't sound like much of a fight," Hermione remarked flatly.

"It wasn't," he admitted. "But it was either that or face a beating by my father for being a coward. Tobias was a mean drunk. So I let old Bully Boy do his worst."

Hermione was struggling to hold onto her anger. She wasn't sure if he was trying to evoke sympathy. Rather, she felt he was looking for understanding—perhaps alluding to the reason for his imperfections. Maybe even an oblique segue-way into this trip. In some ways she dreaded the thought of a connection between the two. She was also starting to feel the effects of the liquor, which made her more forgiving than she might otherwise be.

"Let's play chess."

He gave her a curious look. "You _are_ a glutton for punishment, aren't you?"

There was a playful glimmer in his eye and his voice had taken on that hint of honey that she was finding less and less able to resist.

She looked down to avoid his gaze, and was surprised to discover that she'd finished her glass already. Holding it out, she gave a resigned shrug. "You know what they say . . . If you can't beat 'em, join 'em."

Then he laughed, a low rolling chuckle that startled her. She didn't think she'd ever heard it before.

"So you're admitting that you can't beat me?" he said, refilling her glass and his own.

"Correction," she replied primly, although she was feeling anything but prim with the whisky starting to muddy her senses. "I admit I am unlikely to beat you at chess. However, I believe I could beat you in many other endeavours."

He snorted as he set out the rocks on the board. "Such as?"

"Well . . . " She narrowed her eyes as though she were appraising him carefully. "From this trip alone . . . I can name a number of things."

His black eyes alighted on hers. "I doubt it."

"Hmmm." She placed a finger below her bottom lip in a mock thinking pose. "I believe I could climb a tree better than you."

He chuckled again, continuing to set the board. "I'm not going to dignify that suggestion with a response."

She couldn't hide her smile—she'd hoped to make him laugh.

"I believe I could fit inside that empty sheep carcass better than you."

His eyebrows shot up. "Miss Granger . . . what would make you even say that? I would strongly suggest that you've had enough whisky."

"It's true though, isn't it?" She leaned towards him. "Say it . . . say that I would fit inside a sheep better than you."

"That is utterly ridiculous." He frowned, but there was a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

She knew she was being ridiculous—it was the sort of thing she and Ginny would say to crack each other up, but she liked seeing him smile.

"And I think I would look better standing under that waterfall," she murmured. And instantly regretted her words.

He stopped fiddling with the stones to gaze at her with an intensity that made her want to melt off her seat and slide away in a glob of molten arousal, singed with humiliation.

"Really?" The word rolled languorously off his tongue.

Their seats were facing one another with the table between them and his boot was sitting just outside hers. He lifted his toe to graze across her ankle and she shivered.

"I . . . I really didn't mean that," she stammered. "I just thought it might be an amusing thing to . . . say."

"Amusing? . . . That's certainly not a word I would use to describe such a thing." His words were slow and measured, her insides dropping with each one.

"No—I meant it was amusing to suggest that I could look better than . . . you . . ." She tailed off, realising she'd said way too much.

He kept his eyes on her and moved his knight stone. She quickly followed his lead with a pawn, focusing intently on the board.

The game continued in silence but she could still feel his boot touching hers. She knew she absolutely didn't need it, but in the absence of anything to do between turns, she drank more whisky. Soon she'd forgotten about her embarrassment and just looked at him openly. In fact, she stared at him—all of him—she was particularly taken with the subtle shifting of his features as he considered his options—tiny, sharp saccades of his onyx eyes, slight flexing of his brows, twitching of his lips . . . those lips . . .

"Miss Granger?"

"What?"

His eyes were on her. "Check . . . mate."

"Oh . . . " She scanned the board as if suddenly remembering that they were meant to be playing. "Well done."

He leaned back in his chair and appraised her, his mouth moving as though he were slowly chewing something.

"Have you had enough?"

She continued to gaze at him, eyes sliding over his features. "No."

"So you want another?"

"Game?" She glanced at the board distractedly. "Oh . . . yes, alright."

His eyebrow lifted in obvious amusement. She felt his toe gently nudge her foot again as he re-set the board.

They continued to play for hour after hour. He'd stopped filling her glass but she was comfortable with that—quite comfortably numb. Occasionally one left to relieve themselves in a spot over the bank or to place a log of wood on the fire. Hermione retrieved a packet of crisps and then a bag of salted peanuts from her bag for them to share. And it was as he was licking salt from his upper lip that Severus placed an elegant finger on top of his Queen, sliding it across to take her bishop.

"Who taught you to play chess?" she murmured slightly drunkenly, marvelling, not for the first time, at his skill.

"Lily"

She was jolted by his response. For some reason the name felt forbidden.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not. I greatly enjoy the game."

"No . . . I meant—"

"I know."

Silence.

"You must miss her."

He studied the board for so long, she didn't think he was going to respond.

"I do . . . She was great company . . . Much like yourself."

Hermione blinked in surprise. _She was good company?_ The last time he'd provided a direct appraisal of her was to tell her she was an 'insufferable know-it-all.' As far as she knew, he'd continued to hold that opinion of her.

"I find you good company too," she responded tentatively, unsure of whether the exchange might signify too much.

He pursed his lips dubiously. "Which is why you were looking to leave this morning."

Hermione's mouth dropped open, she hadn't expected to be confronted over that.

"I . . . I admit that I was upset."

"Because you didn't trust me."

"No . . . I simply jumped to a conclusion that turned out to be wrong."

"You needn't explain. I wouldn't trust myself either." He refused to look at her, focusing on the remaining few stones on the board.

Hermione felt herself getting defensive but Luna was right, she did struggle with vulnerability. What they both needed now was the truth.

"I was disappointed when I saw you with Luna. I didn't know who she was then. I thought that you'd arranged to meet up with another woman for . . . for . . . "

"Sex?" His eyes suddenly penetrated her.

"Yes." She returned his gaze just as directly. "It's what I would have expected of you before . . . before this trip. But somehow I thought you'd changed. You've been different out here. So much more . . . thoughtful, considerate . . . but when I saw you I felt that it had all been an act, an attempt to deceive me, and I fell for it. And, admittedly, I was angry at myself for caring."

"I should have let you leave." His voice was low, almost a whisper.

"What do you mean?" Hermione could feel her anger rising. "I was good company only a moment ago."

Severus slumped back in his chair, his expression surprisingly defeated.

"I shouldn't have brought you this far."

"Then why did you?" Hermione snapped, sharper than she'd intended but she didn't appreciate being kept in the dark for so long.

"Because I'm a selfish bastard. Without you I would have backed out—given up."

"Given up on what?"

Severus looked at her, his expression pained but resolute. "Hermione, I won't be leaving here."

Hermione frowned. "I don't understand. Why are you staying?"

"I'm going into the mountains." He circled his fingertips over the arm of his chair. "I'm planning to inflict as much damage as possible. I won't be coming back."

"What?" Hermione cried, leaping off her seat. "That's complete madness! All we need to do is return to the Ministry and tell them what we've discovered. They can arrange to deal with the matter—they have plenty of resources. There's no reason for you to go in alone. That would be suicide!"

His expression, dark brooding eyes fixed upon her, told her everything she needed to know. She took a step toward him, imploring him with her own eyes.

"I know your life hasn't been easy. And I understand that you're in pain right now. But this isn't the solution. You have so much more to do—more to offer."

He sighed heavily. "I'm not the man I once was."

Turning to face the fire, he stared vacantly into the flames. "I've given up on everything of value, including my integrity. I've kept you here to remind me of that—of what I did to you. I'm disgusted at myself but it's helped me to focus on what I need to do. I have the best chance of thwarting the uprising alone. If what I suspect is true, any sense of a major response to this gathering, and they will simply disperse and reassemble elsewhere. This is the best opportunity to take out the leader once and for all."

"You can't!" Hermione shouted. She crossed her arms like a petulant child. She didn't want to hear any more of his self-loathing and ridiculously calm explanations. She was still fuzzy from the alcohol, and she was furious and desperately upset at him for considering such a thing. "And I don't accept your judgement of your circumstances," she snapped.

He frowned at her. "Hermione, it isn't yours to accept."

"Yes it is. It's about me. And I happen to have forgiven you for what you did. I don't hate you anymore. So you have no right to hate yourself on my behalf."

He clenched his jaw in anger. "I shouldn't have told you," he growled. "Any of it. I suspected you wouldn't accept my decision. You just can't help but interfere, can you? Forcing your self-righteous opinions upon others. I'm not fucking interested in what you're willing to accept from me!"

"I think you wanted me to interfere." She approached another step. "I think you've wanted me to all along."

"Don't flatter yourself," he sneered.

"And how were you going to make me leave?" she implored him. "What could you have said that would make me go?"

"I wouldn't have said anything." Severus' voice was so low she could barely hear him. "I'd simply have taken you by the throat again—as I did before. And you would have gone." The pain in his eyes was so raw that she wanted to look away. "Then you would have been glad when it all played out—when I was finally removed from your life—everyone's lives—once and for all."

"Oh Gods, Severus." Hermione shook her head as she stumbled toward him, tears brimming in her eyes. "You stupid fucking bastard. Why didn't you just tell me you needed a hug?"

Collapsing onto his lap, she threw her arms around his neck and squeezed him as though her life depended upon it. He didn't return the hug but he didn't throw her off either. He was so tense, it was like hugging a statue but she didn't let go, holding him till she felt the air slowly escaping him and his shoulders gradually sagging beneath her. She pressed her heart against his, each powerful thud jolting through her.

She waited until his laboured breathing had steadied to slow rhythmic waves before lifting her head to look at him. His face was close. It had only been closer in the den, when he'd kissed her. Keeping one arm hooked around his neck, she brought the other around to touch his cheek. He flinched but she held it there as she gazed openly into his eyes. Gradually, she trailed her fingertips down to the curve of his jaw before sliding across to his mouth, trickling up the fleshy furl under his lower lip before tipping over onto the impossible silkiness of those sensuously soft pads. His lips parted slightly with the insistent pressure of her fingers and she flexed to press gently into the gap.

He hadn't responded whatsoever to her thus far and so when she felt it, the warm tip of his tongue flicker against her sensitive tips, she sucked in a rapid breath. Tilting her head, she leaned forward to place a single, soft kiss against his temple, near his earlobe. He tilted away ever so slightly as though unconsciously positioning himself for her next indulgence. The following kiss she placed on the firm ridge of his cheekbone before trailing across to the corner of his nose. He bowed his head slightly but she firmed her fingers against his lips, holding him in place.

Angling her head, she grazed down to alight on the gentle hollow at the corner of his mouth. Sliding across to replace her fingertips, she finally pressed her lips against his, feeling his warm breath shudder out against her.

He couldn't remember being explored with such tender curiosity. And now her tongue was out, tasting him in slow, sweet tips that prodded and probed the length of his lips before slipping like a succulent fruit between them. He'd had so much sex with so many people and yet he was trembling like a teenager, not only because it was the last time it would ever happen—the last time he would feel another's lips against his own, but because it was her and she was showing him what it was like to be accepted, how it would feel to be loved unconditionally.

This was the last thing he'd wanted. It would make everything to come so much more difficult. But he could no longer restrain himself; she was fresh water and he was a dying man. His mouth closed around her offering and his tongue slid up beside hers as his arms wrapped around her, drawing her in. The moan came from deep in her throat, revealing the intensity of her need and he responded by flexing his fingers into her denim-clad buttocks and delving his tongue inside her. She sighed as he raked his fingers into her hair and lapped her mouth, his lips hot and loose. He felt her body melting into his and his cock responded as though he were already inside her, arching up to grind into her groin.

Maybe it was the alcohol but within seconds her hand was down there, rubbing gratuitously at his member. He tore his lips away, breathing raggedly against her cheek.

"I'm not sure you want to continue with that," he groaned, unable to hide his pleasure despite trying to warn her off.

"I'm sure I do, actually," she breathed, twisting her head to capture his lips again.

He probed and sucked her more before regaining his senses and capturing the wrist of her hand that was doing a very good job of trying to jerk him off through his trousers.

"Hermione . . . we can't fuck," he sighed.

"Why?" She kept trying to reach for his cock despite his iron grip.

"Because you're drunk. You wouldn't want this if you were sober. I know how much you disapprove of me—of the fact that I've fucked your friends."

It was true. He was tainted. It was extremely off-putting to recall what she'd seen. And yet she couldn't remember wanting anyone so badly in her life. Her senses seemed to be overruling her mind at that moment—in fact, she so wanted him inside her that she was just about ready to beg him for it.

But then she had an idea.

"Potions."

"Sorry?"

"Sobriety potions. Do you have any?"

It turned out that he did. He'd brought them in case he hadn't been unable to resist the draw of the bottle and the shit had hit the fan, requiring immediate action.

"Yes."

"Right." Hermione sat back on his lap and fixed him with a determined look. "We'll both take one and if we feel the same as we do now, we will fuck."

He couldn't help smirking; it sounded like a proclamation by the Queen.

"And if we don't?"

"Then you're going to have to put up with a quick hand-job." She smirked. "Your own."

He couldn't help looking disappointed.

"But I want you to promise that you're still going to talk to me," she stated firmly. "Even if nothing happens."

He sighed. "If I must."

"I'll meet you in your tent," she said, slipping off his lap. "I think we might need the extra room."

He snorted as he watched her weaving her way back to her tent. Then, rising creakily from his chair he looked skyward, surprised to see that the sun was starting to set. He was still extremely apprehensive but a small flicker of hope had dared to weave its way into his thoughts. He didn't deserve to hope—not after what he'd done, but he felt himself clinging to it all the same.

Inside her tent, Hermione located the small blue bottle, slipping it into her pocket. If fucking him was what was needed to stop him from pursuing his plan to offer himself as some sort of noble sacrifice—again, she'd do it. But she was still concerned that sobriety may well bring up all her misgivings about his past and what he'd done with practically everyone she knew. She felt the weight of the bottle as she stood, she would just need to find the courage to drink it.


	13. Fornifanfiction

He had a bed. Not a blow up mattress. Or even a transfigured mattress. It was a full king-sized bed, carved from dark wood with a stack of plump pillows and stylish, expensive bedding. Hermione thought about feeling jealous for a millisecond before she realised that there was a good chance she would be rolling all over it in the very near future and so decided to be optimistically excited instead.

But her excitement suddenly abated when she realised what he was doing—reclining seductively on the bed, boots and coat off—reading a book.

"Oh sorry, am I interrupting something?" she inquired, propping a hand on her hip.

"Not yet," he replied, continuing to read.

 _Cheeky bastard_.

He was wearing that fitted grey top that accentuated the firm contours of his chest and shoulders. Locks of dark hair hung over his face and his lips were pouting slightly, as they did when he was concentrating on something. She remembered the feel of them against hers, her tongue pressing between them into his hot mouth. A breathy, growling sound reverberated in her throat—she was more than ready to give him a good interrupting.

When she saw the smirk pulling at his upper lip, her eyes narrowed. He certainly loved to infuriate her. And she suspected that he was reasserting himself. It wasn't just about what she wanted. He was making sure that she knew it.

"Well, I guess I'll just head back to my tent then." She gave an exaggerated sigh and turned to leave.

In a flash she was caught by the wrist and yanked onto the bed, trapped helplessly under his body.

"Where . . . do you think . . . you're . . . going?" His dangerously smooth baritone slid over her.

It was just like Little Red Riding Hood being captured by the Big Bad Wolf, thought Hermione. Except that this Little Red Riding Hood had a major wetty for the Big Bad Wolf and would be more than happy for him to eat her . . . out.

"You seemed so engrossed." Hermione was having trouble drawing a full breath with his weight pressing down on her. "I didn't wish to interfere."

He snorted. "First time for everything."

Before she could retaliate his mouth closed over hers and his tongue blocked off the escape route for anything other than a throaty moan. She took the opportunity to slide her hand up and grope his chest, warm and muscular even through his top. And he obviously considered that a green light to follow suit, as his hand was suddenly on her breast, kneading it gently through her clothing before his thumb flicked back and forth across her nipple, making her writhe beneath him.

He was so adept and so delicious, Hermione decided she would nearly forego the sobriety potion to spend the entire evening just snogging on his bed. He tasted of whisky and smoke, but rather than the dirty, rancid flavour she recalled from one of her very few one-night stands, his was rich and oaky and not at all unpleasant. In fact, she found herself repeatedly plunging into the depths of his mouth to sample more.

Not surprisingly, he was also one of those rare kissers who always happened to know the right thing to do at the right time. There were no teeth clashes or unpleasant abrasions, just a constant flow of smooth, languid and deeply erotic movements that soon had her core throbbing, jealous for the same treatment.

She reached for his cock which was sandwiched between their bodies, dragging her palm along the impressive girth that was straining against the placket of his trousers. Unfortunately her journey was soon cut short as he rolled back and grabbed her by the wrist, pinning it beside her head.

"There's something that needs to be dealt with before we get into any of that," he rumbled, continuing to kiss along her jawline and down her neck.

Hermione closed her eyes, revelling in the sensation of his warm breath, its gentle flutter preceding each caress by his silken lips. She just wanted him to keep going, to continue down to melt her nipples which were already singing with arousal. But she knew he wouldn't do it. Not yet. The potions were needed to restore a sense of propriety to his actions. In the past, he'd drugged women before having sex with them. He didn't want Hermione to make this decision drunk. She suspected that he'd spent the past days reflecting intensively upon his behaviour and was determined to restore a sense of integrity—even if it was only for this final time. Indeed, this entire suicide mission seemed to be based upon atonement.

Hermione's heart still ached for him when she thought of his plans, especially as he combed his fingers under her hair and continued his delectable journey around the back of her neck and up to flicker behind her earlobe, sending shivery bursts along her spine. She was panting. She had an immediate and desperate need for him but was hopeful that they could create a moment—something significant enough to make him reconsider.

"Let's take them now," Hermione murmured breathily. "Before you drive me fucking insane."

Laughter rumbled through his chest and she smiled, her eyes still closed. She didn't think she would ever tire of amusing him. It was such a novelty to think that he had a similar sense of humour to herself.

"Accio," he commanded and Hermione opened her eyes to see a bottle fly from somewhere across the tent into his hand.

Without fanfare, he flicked off the stopper and downed it. Summoning a second bottle, he removed the stopper and held it to her lips. Looking intently into her eyes, he seemed about to say something before he appeared to change his mind, pouring the liquid down her throat. She swallowed and it was like a veil lifting. A piercing clarity brought her thoughts into instant focus, sharpening her senses. The rosy haze disappeared and the cold of the evening struck her like a quick dip under the waterfall.

He was still lying on top of her but he blinked hesitantly before rolling back.

 _He'd changed his mind_.

"Do you still want to . . . have sex?" she asked. The word 'fuck' no longer seemed to want to come out.

"No."

She felt herself flush, somehow embarrassed to think that it was only the alcohol that had made him want her.

"It would make everything to come much harder for both of us."

It was true. If he continued with his plan, she would be devastated—for a variety of complex reasons. If they had sex first—shared a deeper level of intimacy—it would be worse. And for him, it would make leaving her more difficult.

"—And yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes."

"Why yes?" She was confused.

"Because you are exquisite." He cupped her cheek with his hand.

It was only one word, and one action, but it was enough.

Hermione rolled out from under him and pushed herself up, kneeling on the edge of the bed.

He gazed at her resignedly, clearly expecting her to leave. But she didn't. Slipping off her jacket, she tossed it aside, hearing the thud of the potion bottle in her pocket as it hit the tent floor. Both boots followed. Pulling her wand from the sleeve of her top, she cast a warming spell to ward off the chill before throwing that aside and slowly peeling off her top.

He was leaning on one elbow, watching her intently as she casually discarded each layer until she knelt before him in only jeans and a black bra. His molten gaze slithered across her bare skin and she felt a surge of something inside—desire mixed with . . . determination. _Did she think they should fuck?_ She'd show him the answer to that question in no uncertain terms. In fact, she intended to use the remaining time to make it as difficult for him to leave her as possible.

Locking her eyes upon his, she slid both hands down her abdomen to the front of her jeans, where she grasped the button and gradually pulled it through the hole before gripping the zipper and, with excruciating precision, lowered it. He swallowed, his gaze flickering from the exposed triangle of her knickers back to her face. He reminded her of a dog, waiting impatiently to be granted a treat. He might desire a more refined level of decency but he was clearly still operating at the most carnal level. And that excited her even more.

With renewed inspiration, and a wicked internal grin, she slipped a hand back down the soft curve of her belly before dipping her fingers under the elastic of her knickers, delving through her pubic hair to slip them into the groove between her labia. With slow, gratuitous movements, she rubbed her fingers over her clit and down to her sopping hole over and over again until they were soaked in her arousal before she slipped them out and brought them up to her lips, sucking them into her mouth.

Severus' hooded black gaze simmered under his furrowed brows, an expression of such wanton desire that she couldn't help smirking around her fingers like a naughty child. Lips still curled into a provocative grin, she reached behind herself and unhooked her bra, slipping it off her shoulders and tossing it over her shoulder in a blatant strip tease emulation that had him shaking his head in distraction, an indication that he was getting close to breaking point. Grasping both areola between her thumbs and middle fingers, she squeezed, protracting her nipples before rotating the sensitive tips with her index fingers. The tightening of his jaw as he watched her pleasuring herself made her moan at her own ministrations and that seemed to be the final straw.

Jaw clenched in a blatant 'don't fuck with me' expression, he leaped up and pulled her down onto the bed, straddling her waist between his knees.

Her eyes shone with excitement as he tore off his top and threw it aside. She groaned, eyelids sinking with ecstasy at having that body finally revealed up-close, clenched and seething above her. _Oh my fucking God!_

As she watched, he grasped the button of his fly, as she had done, and popped it open before sliding the zipper down in an agonising slow reveal that had her eyes widening in anticipation. At the bottom of its descent, he paused, waiting for her to glance up at him impatiently, before releasing the zipper with both hands allowing his trousers to slide down, his cock springing free. Although she had a sense of his dimensions from handling him earlier, the full magnificence of his member looming over her breasts was enough to shock the air from her in a single explosive breath.

He saw her hands coming this time, and swooped down to snatch them together in one large fist before pinning them both above her head. She gasped in surprise before a petulant pout captured her lips. She knew it was the teasing she deserved but she was itching to get her hands on him. Everything she'd touched of him so far—his lips, his face and his chest, the last only through a layer of clothing, had felt so warm, soft and delicious, and she knew that the impressive member jutting above her wouldn't disappoint.

But he kept her hands pinned under his fist as he slid one leg and then the other from his trousers so that he was completely, beautifully, naked. Then he brought his knees up further to straddle her breasts before grasping the base of his cock with his free hand and bending it forward to place the head against her cheek. It seemed an odd thing to do but then the intensity of his gaze told her that her response was important.

Then she understood. He'd expected her to flinch—or turn away. To be in that vulnerable a position beneath him after what he'd done to her. To be that intimately close to his cock, which she'd observed being sucked by someone else in an attempt to intimidate her. He'd clearly expected this to be the clincher—the moment that would break her. But it didn't.

Instead, she remained focused on his intensely serious face, shrouded in dark hair above her, before turning to nuzzle against his softness. She drew the smooth tip of her nose up and down his shaft, inhaling his musky, masculine scent before exhaling gently against him. His jaw slackened. Then she lifted her chin a little to feather her lips against his warm, silken length and she noticed his chest swelling in response. When she parted her lips and placed an open-mouthed kiss against him, flicking her tongue out to taste him, she heard his breath escape and looked up to see a mixture of desire and relief on his face.

And if he was in any doubt about her intentions she quickly dispelled them by lifting her chin further and closing her mouth over the tip of his swollen head, sucking it gently as she slid her tongue into the weeping slit. She looked up into his eyes to make sure the message was clear. His response confirmed that it was.

Withdrawing his cock, he released her hands and slithered down to lay on top of her, his long, lithe body encapsulating hers. Grasping her jaw with strong fingers, he captured her lips in a kiss of such raw passion that it stole her breath away. This exchange, unlike the others, was completely unrestrained. He wasn't playing or manipulating or even showing off his prowess, he was communicating a deep need and she responded with equal intensity. She might be using sex, his own currency, to communicate, but she couldn't pretend that she was sacrificing herself.

In her, admittedly limited, sexual experience, she'd never felt so acutely aroused. Her nipples rubbed deliciously against his pectorals as he continued to devour her lips and tongue. And with her throbbing pussy just about ready to burst from her jeans, she was relieved to feel one of his hands slide down her back and slip under the waistband of her jeans and knickers to cup her buttocks. His fingers squeezed and kneaded, pulling and grinding her flesh before he curled his wrist to prop per pelvis forward so that his cock was now rubbing along the seam that pressed between her labia. To feel his hot length sliding against her pussy, muted by the denim, was yet another exquisite torture, but when his other hand closed around her breast and his fingers started on her nipple, she realised that he hadn't even started.

Those fingers—long, deft, confident and clearly so adept soon had sensations shooting through her body that she'd never thought possible. And when he crawled down until his lips were hovering just above that flushed hyper-sensitised peak, she wondered if yet another stimulation escalation might just about do her in.

Then he took her—tongue scooping into her nub from below, deliciously bowed lips from above, until she hissed her desire, "Severusss," arching into him. His languidly feline undulations as he tugged and rolled her nipple inside the humid cavern of his mouth had both of her hands tunnelling into his hair and clinging on in desperation. Her pussy was convulsing. He had it on a string, knowing exactly how to evoke the sparking sensations that shot from her breasts down through her core, over and over again.

"Oh Gods, Severus," she groaned. She'd been the one determined to make some sort of carnal appeal to him, or at least to titillate him sufficiently to get him to reconsider his plans, but it was currently all one-way traffic. Of course women were clamouring for him. _Who wouldn't come back for more of this? But would there be more? Would anything exist beyond this?_ She knew she shouldn't let her mind go there—her throat was already constricting with sadness.

Fortunately her thoughts were suddenly dragged off course as he slipped down further, curling his fingers into the waistband of her jeans and knickers and peeling them off her hips. Even before they had reached her knees, he'd buried his nose in her pubic hair, nuzzling down to press into the apex of her slit, squeezing down on her clitoris which was bursting for release from its fleshy entrapment. With her legs still pressed together, his tongue had to work to burrow its way between her lips to her clit, and that insistent wriggling as he tunnelled in to flick against her aching nub was so mind-blowingly erotic that she began thrusting uncontrollably, trying to force greater contact. Yanking her jeans off with a final flourish, he pulled her knees apart and finally buried his face in her glistening folds.

She moaned and writhed against him as his nose slipped up and down between her clitoris and her opening. She'd never be able to look at that beautifully curved proboscis again without imagining it as it was now, a masterful chaperone to his equally adept tongue which vacillated between gentle teasing, head to head with her clitoris, before plunging powerfully into her channel.

Hermione's own head rocked from side to side. Her tumbleweed must look a fright but she absolutely couldn't stop, the excruciating relentlessness of his glorious assault was more intense than she'd ever imagined. And then she felt the sensation change, transitioning to a new level of pleasure that continued to build. All that was required was another flicker or two over her clitoris— which he provided on cue, _of course he did_ —and she was there, crying out as she exploded around the tongue that had slithered back down to graciously provide something for her pussy to clamp onto as it surged and stuttered, bucking and thrusting out its release around him.

But even before she'd started to come down, he pulled away and sat back on his knees, lifting her hips off the bed until her pussy was at cock height. Positioning his head at her entrance, he entered with one languid thrust that had Hermione's jaw dropping open and her eyes rolling back in shocked ecstasy. And clearly the sensation of her still-shuddering pussy grasping his freshly-impaled cock was equally gratifying for him as he released a long, deep grunt of approval before beginning to thrust.

The sensation of his considerable cock reaming the walls of her swollen channel was so deeply fulfilling that Hermione found herself fisting the bedding in an attempt to prevent herself from floating away on a tide of sensorial bliss. And when she cracked her eyes open and saw his abdominal muscles, clenching deliciously at the termination of each thrust, she felt she had indeed died and gone to . . . well, most likely hell . . . she couldn't imagine a sizzlingly hot, sexy beast like this residing anywhere else.

The swing of his hips was exquisite as his hands clamped around her hips, holding her in perfect position to drive his head along her front wall with each thrust. Hermione's face was flushed, filled with blood at her inversion and subsequent pummelling, but she was beyond caring. And it became even less important when his thumb slipped around to gently stroke her clitoris. The swollen nub was still sensitive after her previous orgasm and he clearly knew that as he avoided the head, rubbing against the shaft until she was on the verge again.

She'd never been able to bring herself to orgasm twice in a row. Or even really felt compelled to. But here she was in no time at all climbing to another with the most substantial cock she'd ever encountered pleasuring her internally and his beautifully talented fingers working her nerve bundle until her whole body tensed and her legs kicked out behind him.

"Gods, I love thisss," she hissed before dissolving into fits of breathy grunts as her body jerked in spasmodic waves of release.

Her pussy was squeezing his rigid member mercilessly but he fully intended to make this as memorable for her as possible. And so he gritted his teeth, riding out the temptation to simply blow his load into her enticing depths until the incredible milking sensation of her exquisitely tight muscles had abated.

When he felt that he'd calmed down sufficiently, he lifted both of her ankles onto his shoulders and leaned forward until she was bent almost double. She was as flexible as he'd suspected, so this position wasn't beyond her. But just to make sure, he shuffled them both down the bed a little further before leaning on her fully. It wasn't something he often did—this conformation was both exposed and intimate and he rarely wanted to share this level of intimacy with anyone. But she was an exception. She was exceptional—she always had been in many ways. And he wanted her to know it.

Hermione felt like a taco—with its contents about to spill out. His cock was still inside her, fully erect, he hadn't come. But when he leaned into her, his dark eyes penetrating her just as deeply as his shaft, she felt such an indescribable depth of connection that she quickly put aside any sense of discomfort.

Her mind was threatening to explode with the thoughts she'd buried inside it, with the understanding of what all this really meant. And as the tears threatened to fall, she looked up to see that he was smiling at her, a very slight hitch of his mouth and a relaxing of the prominent line between his brows. It wasn't what she'd been expecting and it made her suddenly feel that everything was going to be alright. Even though deep-down she knew it wasn't.

Propping his arms beside her shoulders, he began by withdrawing almost fully before sinking back down into her. Gradually easing in and out, he let her adjust to the position before progressively building until his cock was driving down into her more emphatically.

As the depth and speed of his thrusting increased, Hermione reached up to grasp him around the arms, her thumbs curling around his biceps, fingers digging into his prominent triceps. His cock was now entering absolutely vertically and bottoming out against her cervix each time he slammed into her. The weight of his body had her sinking into the mattress and each time she sprang back, she was met by the next downward thrust of his cock such that she felt like a ball being repeatedly thrown against a wall.

Her whole body was being jolted inside and out and her pussy was already on the verge of a third monumental orgasm. As she felt him thumping into her she realised that this was what it meant to be well and truly fucked. And the best part was that she had a perfect view of everything. With her pelvis curled around, she could see his blushing cock, slick with her juices, flashing in and out of her pussy like a well-oiled piston. It was an image that she would take to her grave. And how anyone else could compete with this she wasn't sure; she suspected that he may well have ruined her forever.

The effort of fucking her so thoroughly had him panting and a sheen of perspiration coating his entire body including his arms, which flexed beneath her fingers with each forceful impact. Hermione was wheezing from a combination of her crushed lungs and the overwhelming sensation of a third mounting orgasm. His pelvis slammed her clitoris at the same time as his cock butted against her cervix and so, rather than being teased over the precipice, she was pummelled through it, her release bringing with it tears of such complex origin that she couldn't even explain them to herself.

Severus fixed upon her face as she came, so raw and beautiful. And as her pussy seethed and clutched at his driving cock, he finally let himself go.

"Hermione," he gasped, before wave after wave of visceral groans accompanied the surges of powerful release that shot from his balls into her quaking channel. He'd never had such a sense of transference, of wanting to deposit himself so deeply inside another, of wanting to bury himself there and remain forever. But he had it now—with her. Hermione. He never wanted to leave her. He wanted to remain attached, inside her, safe.

When he finally pulled his cock from her dripping channel and collapsed onto the bed, she instantly crawled onto his chest, curling under his chin. Moments later she began tracing small, light circles on his billowing chest with her fingertips. Neither spoke. There was too much to say.

When he was on the verge of sleep, her voice, impossibly quiet, came to him.

"This tent is bigger than my bedroom."

He snorted wearily, stroking her hair.

"I used to hate my bedroom. I thought perhaps I wouldn't hate it as much if . . . if you were in it."

He continued to stroke her. He knew exactly what she was saying. What she wanted. He didn't respond. He couldn't.

* * *

Hermione shivered as she stepped from the tent. Murmuring quietly, she cast a warming incantation against the bitter cold but stopped as she was about to cast Lumos, realising that the full moon, high and bright in the sky, was already casting a bright milky glow over the entire wilderness. Picking her way through the damp grass, she headed over the bank for a pee. She would normally check to see where Severus had placed his wards to avoid running into them but he'd fallen asleep before he'd had the opportunity.

Squatting down behind a bush, she breathed a sigh of relief, she'd been holding on for way too long, especially considering the pounding she'd received down there—deliciously vicious. She smiled to herself. The sex had been incredible but he'd also promised to keep talking to her. Hopefully, the next conversation would be about when they were leaving; she hoped the answer would be 'immediately.' Despite how enjoyable the trip had been, she had no desire to stay out here for a moment longer. He hadn't responded to her earlier comment, but the sooner she had him tucked up inside her tiny but safe bedroom, the better.

A shadow fell across her. _Severus?_ Before she could turn, a ferocious snarl ripped through the air as razor-sharp claws dragged across her face. A hairy fist stifled her scream before she felt herself being lifted bodily and dragged away across the plain.


	14. Sybartful

_Gone_.

Severus lurched forward, blinking into the murky light. He fanned his arm over the quilt. _Cold_. The magical lamp they'd fallen asleep under no longer burned; it must have been extinguished sometime in the night. Sliding his long, bare legs from the bed, he thrust himself up and strode toward the tent door, a flick of his hand causing his clothes to leap up and coalesce around him such that he was fully dressed as he stepped into a bitter dawn.

She had gone. He felt it. Her tent lay as she'd pitched it, her pack leaning by the entrance. But even as he approached, he knew that she wasn't inside. Or even nearby. The only sound that came to him was the dull rumble of the distant waterfall.

 _Had she simply had enough and left?_ _Had he mis-read the cues?_ She'd seemed to enjoy their time together as much as he had. But maybe she'd wanted more— _a commitment to join her—to leave?_

 _After only this short time could he have given it?_ The tightness in his chest as her absence sank in told him that the answer was, ' _yes_.' He wished now that he'd been man enough to tell her, that he'd dispensed with his longstanding failure to commit, and spilled the truth.

He wanted her. And not just sexually. It was an entirely foreign concept, especially in recent years, but he found that he wanted her for himself. He wasn't prone to jealousy _—_ there was always plenty of pussy to go around _—_ but the thought of anyone else lying beneath her naked body, feeling her gentle hands caressing them, having her tucked possessively beneath their chin, made him grind his teeth. And, more significantly, he wanted to be hers. He could finally admit that he _had_ wanted her to interfere all along.

He'd never had that. Not genuinely. Women wanted him for what he could give them, most often sex. But she cared about him—cared what happened to him. Despite everything he'd done to discourage her, she continued to care. And she'd forgiven him. He didn't deserve it but she'd forgiven him and, despite her disapproval, she'd fucked him. And he'd enjoyed it. And so had she. _So where the fuck was she?_

"Hermione?"

Silence.

He narrowed his black eyes, peering into the gloom around the campsite.

"Lumos," he muttered, holding his wand aloft and turning in a slow circle.

His stomach lurched.

Tracks. He saw animal tracks. And something else. A disturbance. Something was being dragged.

"Oh Gods, fuck!" he moaned, fear welling in his chest.

Crouching, he trailed his fingers through a furrow of disturbed ashes. He lifted them to the light. Blood. A wave of dread washed over him, swamping him so completely that he toppled to his knees.

A single sob broke from his chest before he reined it in with a grimace. This was his fault. He'd done this to her. He'd kept her there with him—even when he'd known how dangerous it was. It was pure selfishness. _And he hadn't even set his fucking wards!_

He ground a fist against his thigh, eyes screwed shut in pain. His mind was so fucked up that he wasn't even capable of protecting her. _How could he forget his fucking wards?_ He'd obviously been so concerned about getting his leg over that he'd ignored all of his training, all of the precautions he would have taken as a matter of course.

"For fuck's sake!" he choked.

He'd always blamed Lily for not choosing him. He'd convinced himself that if she'd been with him, he could have protected her—it was her own foolish choices that had killed her. And yet that was clearly untrue. He and Hermione had been walking into danger for five days. He'd known exactly what was required to protect her and he simply hadn't done it. Lily wouldn't have been safe with him either. No doubt, he would have managed to fuck that up too. He could no longer blame her for her fate. Or Hermione for not waking him. Or his father for being a drunken asshole. Or Dumbledore for asking too much of him.

 _A fucking hero?_ What a fucking joke. He was a fuck-up and the shame of it all was immense—crushing down upon him, looking to eliminate him like some cowardly cockroach.

He knelt in the ashes for so long that he lost feeling in his wand hand, his iron grip turning his fist cold and deathly pale. He could do himself in then and there. At least it would be preferable to waiting for them to take him too. She might well be dead already. _What would be the point in seeing it for himself—in witnessing what his selfishness had perpetrated?_

 _But what if she wasn't? What if she was waiting for him to rescue her? And here he was, kneeling in the dirt like a useless shit?_

He sighed heavily, wiping his wrist across his eyes. There would be no element of surprise—not that there was ever going to be one. If what he suspected was true, they'd likely known he and Hermione were approaching all along.

He would simply walk in there and offer himself in her place. It was the best he could do. Her life was worth a thousand of his. She was brilliant. And she would do things that mattered.

Staggering to his feet, he stumbled around the cold fire and headed toward the plain.

At least he might get to see her again. In what state it was impossible to tell. He hated the thought of it ending like this—he'd stupidly dared to imagine playing chess with her on a proper board, sampling more of her fucking excellent cooking, and sleeping in her bedroom—making her love it with him in there.

He blinked the glassy sheen from his eyes. And, as he'd done all his life, he pushed the pain down. There was always the chance that they wouldn't let either of them go—that he and Hermione would die together. That thought, along with so many others that were still festering, unresolved, he shut away behind a layer of cold ruthlessness. It was little more than a shield, a tough metallic skin that he'd cultivated. But it had at least allowed him to survive.

He'd adopted that persona surprisingly easily—the debaucherous asshole. And it had suited him. He'd enjoyed it—the brief periods of reprieve from this pain, this constant ache. And now he needed to bring it back. The last thing Hermione needed was a blubbering mess turning up to mourn what could have been.

Severus' stride lengthened, his cool determination had returned. He flicked a cigarette from the packet, catching it between his lips, before lighting and sucking on it in one motion, drawing in a deep lungful as he forged on toward the fiery glow of the rising sun.

* * *

Wand in hand, he strode from the Apparition point to a rocky clearing by the mountain path. He was near the entrance to one of the many caves that supplied the convoluted network that he knew to exist within. The ground was stirred up with so many prints, it was impossible to discern what was what, but he'd followed the tracks from the campsite to the Apparition point on the plains. She was in there somewhere, he was certain of it.

Positioning himself behind a large boulder, he flicked his wand, casting an incantation that he'd devised himself a few years before. He'd called it, 'Sky Eye'—both a reference to the fact that he'd been on a massive bender at the time, and a quite literal description of what it did. The small orb, now floating above his head, transmitted a remote image of the view from the ocular aperture on its underside. He'd originally devised it as a clandestine means of stalking certain women he fancied—usually to ensure that there wasn't some pugnacious partner that would object to him fucking their missus. Now he grimly acknowledged the fact that this was the first time he'd used it for something worthwhile.

Using his wand, Severus directed the hovering globe around the boulder and into the cave entrance. Via the eye, he viewed the shadowy interior of a tunnel that seemed to stretch deep into the mountain. There was very little light as he guided the globe past the expansive walls, large enough to accommodate numerous trolls and ogres, before rounding a bend to encounter a magical torch in a sconce attached high on the rocky wall.

Gliding the orb further, he came to a junction. Using his wand to remotely swivel the eye left and right, he made the arbitrary decision to turn left. The tunnel floor was littered with prints of all types but it was impossible to tell if she'd been brought this way. The tunnel opened up as he continued, expanding into what appeared to be a cavernous room. In the faint glow of multiple torches scattered about the walls, he could see the glimmering forms of dozens of huge creatures curled inside nests. Despite the variety of colours and sizes, he instantly knew what they were—dragons. Many more than he'd anticipated.

After gliding the globe back and forth, scanning the cavern and its hoard of scaly sleeping bodies, he decided it was unlikely that Hermione would have been brought there—unless she was intended as a snack, and that wasn't something he intended to dwell on. Retracing the eye's original path, he returned to the junction and took the right hand tunnel, soon discovering signs of a scuffle, deep grooves in the dirt and what looked like blood smeared along one wall.

He was instantly buoyed by the discovery. It seemed that she'd fought them all the way— _of course she had_. And if they hadn't killed her before now, there was a chance she was still alive.

Following the clear signs of disturbance along each tunnel, he was able to navigate a further half dozen intersections before making his way into a room that was unexpectedly complete, with an open door, boards on the floors and painted stone walls. As he guided the globe inside, he saw furniture—a desk, a table with four chairs and even a large grandfather clock in the corner. As he rounded the curved wall, he saw her, shackled by the wrists to a large metal ring attached to the wall. She looked a mess, her matted hair was strewn with sticks and leaves, her clothes torn, body grazed and bleeding as it sagged against the stone. But worst of all were her eyes, those beautiful caramel eyes, now wide, fearful and shot with blood. But she was alive. And his heart soared.

Two closed doors led off the room but he was unable to open them remotely. He thought of trying to somehow communicate with her but by the time he was able to inform her that he was there, he could just about be with her in the flesh.

Dipping the tip of his wand, he dismissed the 'Sky Eye' and muttered the incantation for a 'Shadow-hugging spell' that would allow him to blend into the gloom of the tunnels. It was risky being there at all—entering the caves was basically suicide. But he'd known that from the start. He'd already decided what he was prepared to do so he slipped out of his hiding place and marched swiftly into the darkness of the cave.

Following the route that the orb had taken, he fortunately, or perhaps at the nefarious will of another, managed to make his way to the room without encountering a single beast of any kind. As he entered the door, he couldn't shake the distinct feeling that he was walking into a trap. She was the bait—the terribly broken but still strikingly beautiful bait.

He wasted no time getting to her, wrapping his arms protectively around her bloody limbs, even as she grunted, nodding her head at whatever had come through the door behind him.

She was desperately trying to warn him, screaming through the gag around her mouth. But he didn't turn. He didn't need to.

A low growl sounded behind him, and then a voice, gravelly and animalistic but oddly familiar.

"You always did have the nose for this type of thing, didn't you?"

Severus didn't turn, keeping his arms wrapped around Hermione as he responded,

"Mr Parsons, what a pleasant surprise."


	15. Wickedevilish

"Surprise?" The guttural voice sounded even closer behind Severus, causing the hairs to prickle on the back of his neck. "Well, that's not quite true, is it?"

Severus looked into Hermione's eyes which were wild with fear and anger, but there was no sense of revelation, she must have made the connection by now too—the dark beast leader was none other than the head of the Magical Creature division, Benedict Parsons.

Severus didn't respond, he dearly wanted to heal Hermione, to treat the deep gashes scoring her cheek and chest, the cuts and grazes on her hands and arms, but he sensed that helping her wasn't part of Parsons' plan.

A hairy paw suddenly closed around his neck, the sharp tips of several claws set to pierce his jugular.

"Your wand. Now," Parsons snarled hotly in his ear.

Severus could try casting a combat spell but he'd encountered enough werewolves in his life to know that they were lighting fast and possessed a degree of physical strength many times that of a human. One false move and he and Hermione would be eviscerated. Keeping his eyes on hers, communicating a calmness that he didn't feel, he reached his wand hand backwards. As the smooth wood was snatched from his fingers, a claw scored painfully across his wrist, causing blood to spring from the cut and trickle down his palm.

"Step away from the girl," the gravelly voice commanded.

Severus stiffened, his other arm tightening around her.

The werewolf chuckled darkly. "Don't worry, you won't be going far. In fact, you'll have the best seat in the house to enjoy what's to come."

The pressure around Severus' neck suddenly increased and he was forced across the room, slammed against the opposite wall and his hands pushed up to another metal ring where shackles suddenly locked around his wrists, blood spilling out from under them.

It was only when the creature stepped back from him, moist, rubbery lips curled into an ugly grin, that Severus could appreciate Benedict Parsons in the fullness of his werewolf form. It was like nothing he'd ever seen before. Parsons was massive. He towered at least two heads above Severus but retained the corpulence of his human body. His furry stomach was immense and his jaw hung with blubbery jowls that gave him the appearance of a bulldog. Other elements of his features, the distinctive tufty eyebrows and piggy eyes also remained, conferring a semblance of humanity that was, unfortunately, absent from his cold gaze.

"Isn't this a cosy little gathering?" Parsons chortled mirthlessly, eyes flickering between his two captives, shackled against opposite walls. "I really didn't expect it to be this easy. But a man who operates under direct guidance from his groin is always going to be prone to certain . . . failings."

Snape glowered at him beneath heavily knitted brows. If he'd had his way, this encounter with Parsons would have resulted in him blasting the entire cavern and everything in it to smithereens. That was clearly no longer an option. The pathetic taunting was going to be nauseating enough but the promise of what was 'to come' had him wishing he'd done the bastard in when he'd initially sensed Parsons' true tendencies, back on his first day at the Ministry.

"What do you want?" Severus growled.

Parsons chortled again, attempting to cross his chubby forepaws across his enormous stomach.

"I would have thought that was obvious."

Severus yanked on his shackles, testing them for points of weakness. There were none.

"Why couldn't you have saved us the trip?" Severus' eyes flicked to Hermione whose mouth was still clamped around the gag, eyes rapidly scanning the room. He knew the cogs would be turning at a million miles an hour, trying to work out an escape. "Surely this could have been done back at the Ministry?"

"Oh, but I tried that, didn't I?" Parsons' rubbery lips pursed together like a pair of folded inner tubes. "The troll was my attempt to do you in. I knew you were the only one stupidly self-sacrificing enough to engage with it. But I actually hadn't expected you to defeat it."

His glare was icy as he appraised Severus.

"As inconvenient as that was, however, it proved the point I'd been making for years."

Severus didn't respond. It wasn't as though Parsons needed encouragement.

"That you weren't to be underestimated." Parsons retreated a few steps to perch his significant backside against the table. "Others had written you off as a drunk and womaniser—which of course you are. But they'd foolishly expected you to pose no obstacle to our plans. But I knew—the way you'd managed to deceive Voldemort—I knew you could never be written off. Even far below your best which, let's face it, you clearly are, I could tell that you still had the annoying potential to de-rail things. And of course I was right."

"So you employed me to 'de-rail things'?" Severus gave a disparaging snort.

"Oh no, I employed you so that I could watch you—to keep you close enough to observe what you were capable of. You advanced far more quickly than anticipated—especially since you were fucking your way through the entire staff at the time."

Severus lifted his chin to peer at the creature smirking grotesquely at him. He would really like to fuck him up right about now.

"In fact, the two of you have been the bane of my existence over recent months," Parsons continued, grasping the edge of the table with his clawed hands. "Miss Granger here has been interfering for so long, I've been forced to waste a considerable amount of time determining how best to get rid of her."

He paused, tapping his claws against the table as he ran his piggy eyes over her, a disapproving snarl wrinkling his snout.

"But then you came along." He returned his gaze to Snape. "It was pleasing to discover that you disliked her just as much as I did. In fact, after the incident in the den, I'd hoped you would do the killing yourself. That's why I sent you out here together; it seemed the perfect opportunity to deal with both of you. But . . ." he tutted, showing his fangs. "You decided to fuck her instead."

Severus could feel his shoulders tensing. The way the beast before him was talking, he suspected that his plans for Hermione might not include negotiating a trade for her life.

"I must say I wasn't particularly surprised in the end." Parsons wet his bottom lip with a flick of his long tongue. "You have a reputation for fucking anything with a pulse. How liberating it must me to be so undiscerning in your tastes," he sneered.

"And Miss Granger." He turned his head, addressing her for the first time. "My, my, haven't you relinquished your standards? The 'Ice Queen'—more frigid than a polar iceberg by all accounts—now spreading your legs for the most indiscriminate fucker in Great Britain. You must be so proud?" he snarled. "You've always been so liberal with your disapproval of others. And yet, when it comes down to it, you're just an animal like the rest of us. My pack could smell you going at it from miles away. It was all I could do to stop them from tearing down your tent then and there, and having their way with you. I'm suspecting now that you might quite enjoy that. I know they're looking forward to it."

Hermione glared at him through bloodshot eyes. _If only looks could kill_ , thought Severus desperately.

"Because when it comes to the end, our base instincts, our animalistic tendencies, are all that remain. When everything is stripped away, when all civility is lost, it is just those raw drives—to plunder, to maim, or to simply survive, that exist. That is what pain can do—physical pain, emotional pain—it can show you the truth of what you are. And this is what I intend to demonstrate to you both. We werewolves have been shunned and reviled throughout history. And yet we are the closest a human being can come to admitting and embracing their true motivations. When humans are forced to dispense with all the pretence, when they face torture and death, the animal comes out—and it is glorious."

Severus' stomach was so tense, he was on the verge of vomiting.

"Let her go, Parsons," he growled.

Parsons chuckled, furry eyebrows arching in amusement. "Oh dear. Don't you see? She is how I intend to control you. My sentries saw you blubbering in the camp earlier. You really have turned into such a sad, pathetic excuse for a man. One fuck and you're already crying on your knees for her. I will tear her apart, piece by piece, before you, but keep her teetering on the precipice of life. And it is that thread that will hold you in my service. One bite and you will transform, you will serve me as you did Voldemort. But I won't make the same mistake as he. He killed your first pitiable love, ensuring your betrayal. This time I will own you, because I will have your heart."

Severus lunged at him, almost dislocating his shoulders with the effort.

"And here we see it . . . The animal emerges." Parsons growled softly, his eyes glittering in fervid anticipation.

Gaze lingering, enjoying Severus' obvious despair, he delivered a final jowly sneer before standing and turning toward one of the closed doors.

"I have someone to introduce to you. I believe you knew her sister . . . quite . . . intimately."

Severus dropped his head. His emotional reserves were rapidly draining away. _Who was it? Another of his fucking conquests? Another sordid liaison to rub his nose in?_

Parsons turned the handle, pushing the door open with an ominous creak. Squinting into the shadowy interior, Severus tried to discern who was in there. He could make out nothing. But the sound that came from within made his heart stop, his stomach dropping into his boots. A hiss—long and low—followed by the oily sheen of coil upon coil of enormous body emerged from the gloom. The patterned green viper slithered through the door, flicking her tongue out to sense the air before proceeding to slither up Parsons' hindlimb, wrapping around his enormous girth as she wound her way up to cloak his shoulders, her head weaving hypnotically in time with the strokes from his claw.

"This is Shika, Nagini's sister." Parsons took slow, emphatic strides toward Severus, the snake's tail dragging along the ground behind him. "Voldemort and I shared not only a desire to rule the Wizarding World with darkness, but a common love of these beautiful creatures."

He stopped in front of Severus so that Shika's head hovered only inches from his nose. Severus gasped, trying to draw breath. He was back in the Shrieking Shack. The pain in his scarred neck flared; his eyes swam with tears.

Parsons snickered. "You have good reason to be a little distraught. You're not Shika's favourite person at the moment. However, you're not to be her first victim. Your little slut will have that special honour."

Parsons turned and approached Hermione. "Yesss, this one is for you," he crooned, stroking the snake's smooth head as it hissed viciously.

Hermione twisted her face away, breathing rapidly through her nose in fear.

"You may wish to avoid her now. But soon she will bite you and you will bleed until you're compliant. Then I will invite my pack in to demonstrate a little of their carnal knowledge. By that time, you'll wish you had succumbed to her bite. You'll be begging her to return and finish you off."

Suddenly there was a loud 'Bong!' that made Hermione shriek into her gag.

"Ahhh, it is time." Parsons glanced at the grandfather clock before turning away and padding over to the desk near the front door, uncoiling the snake from his shoulders as he went. Laying her gently on the desk, he opened the top draw and withdrew a clear glass bottle.

Strolling back, he held the bottle up for Severus to see.

"You might be wondering how I've managed to retain my werewolf form after the full moon?" He waggled the bottle. "It so happens that I managed to procure a large stock of these Lycanthropic potions."

Returning to the table, he set it down. "As long as I keep taking them, I can remain a werewolf for as long as I wish. So if you were hoping for a reprieve, I'm afraid that it won't be coming. I've taken extended leave from the Ministry. Katie will be deflecting all questions. She's so good at following instructions, don't you think? Not like certain others we know." His eyes narrowed on Hermione.

Severus couldn't answer. The thought of what was to come had sapped the last of his strength.

"I look forward to biting young Miss Bell when the time's right. She will perform well. She understands what it is to be used. You showed her that," Parsons growled at Severus. "It's something that werewolves have grown accustomed to but it will happen no more. We've been shunted from Beast to Being and back so many times in the Ministry's history, our identity has been stripped from us. And yet we are uniquely positioned to achieve something that humans never could. We have the capacity to unite the magical creatures under a single leader. And when that's complete, we will make humans our slaves. We are the bridge don't you see? We have traits of both and therefore the capacity to manipulate each to our advantage. It's quite brilliant, don't you agree?"

Severus hung his head, face ashen.

"And would you believe that you, Snape, have already helped to make it so? Like Wolfsbane, the Lycanthropic potion is extremely difficult to brew. I acquired my entire supply on the black market—paid top dollar for them. They happen to have been brewed by an ex-Hogwarts Professor who was looking to fund his drug habit with some dirty money. How deliciously ironic, don't you think?"

"How could you?!" Hermione's voice suddenly screamed from across the room. She'd managed to wrestle the gag from her mouth and was leaning towards Severus, face scarlet. "What sort of man are you?!" she spat.

Parsons' furry brows shot up in surprise before a wicked grin captured his rubbery lips.

"Severusss," he hissed, approaching the man that was hanging from his shackles like he was already dead. "You may not be much of a man. But you will make a magnificent werewolf."

He chuckled heartily before returning to the table.

"Cheers to you." He grinned, picking up the small blue bottle and lifting it to his rubbery lips.

Hermione watched in anticipation. In one gulp it was gone.


	16. Nefairytales

Hermione drew a shaky breath as she watched Parsons toss the empty bottle aside with a nonchalant flick of his paw. She'd done it. The potion swap had gone seemingly unnoticed. Belittling Severus had been a risky diversion, but Parsons seemed to enjoy nothing better than demeaning him as a man, rubbing his nose in his past exploits.

But it had hurt to hurt the man shackled opposite her. He seemed so terribly shaken already and her words had only wounded him further—each accusation landing like a solid punch, leaving him hunched and pale.

If only she'd been able to warn him, to explain herself. But the idea had flared quickly. A faint spark. A small glimmer of hope—slim and admittedly dangerous—but still an opportunity to shove a spanner in the works and hopefully up Parsons' gargantuan arse. But unfortunately it was Severus who would now have to deal with the consequences.

Hermione tried to catch his attention but his eyes were downcast. He might, like her, be feverishly churning through ideas on how to escape. Or he may have simply given up. This wasn't what he had planned. She knew that. In reality, it was the last thing he would ever want—to be transported back to the horror of the Shrieking Shack, facing a lifetime as Parsons' werewolf slave. She doubted now that he'd ever been attached to the nobility of sacrifice, rather it was the finality, the release, and he would no longer be getting that.

She watched with concern as blood trickled steadily down his pale wrist. Werewolf wounds could only be healed with powdered silver and dittany so he would continue to bleed heavily. Eventually he'd weaken and then all resistance would be lost. If he hadn't already given up, his body would ultimately give up for him.

In reality, she was no better off. Her head felt like a bowling ball, and her neck a limp noodle trying to hold it up. She'd also lost a significant amount of blood through several free-flowing gashes inflicted by the werewolf who'd snatched her. And then there was the intense pain that radiated from every battered and bruised part of her body.

But, surprisingly, what dwarfed all of this was the emotional ache—knowing that Severus had cried for her. It shouldn't matter so much but it did. Nobody had ever cried for her. Even after everything that had happened—the Obliviation of her parents, the loss of so many friends. Everyone was in mourning, struggling to survive themselves.

She'd pretended that she'd come through it all—that she'd coped, her disapproving, and admittedly sometimes brittle, demeanour hiding a world of hurt. But the more controlling and demanding she became, the more she drove people away. Ron had tired of it quickly, as had her other relationships. She'd convinced herself that people couldn't cope with her 'high standards' but the truth was that her interference and bossiness was now only tolerated by her closest friends—those who understood her past and granted her that leeway.

That's why, despite their constant wrangling, she and Ginny were inseparable. Ginny knew the worst of her traits and still loved her. But Hermione never thought that a man would. And so she preferred not to go there, not to engage—being untouchable was far preferable to being rejected.

And yet there was a man standing opposite her, one who had seen her at her most controlling and disapproving, but who didn't seem to hate her for it. Not anymore anyway. And certainly these past days she'd felt those traits diminishing—as though she didn't need to manage absolutely everything. She had enough confidence in his abilities to follow him, to respect his decisions. And certainly their sexual encounter was like nothing she'd ever experienced. To give herself so freely was completely unlike her, but it had been one of the most liberating encounters of her life. He was ridiculously sexually confident. But it wasn't just that. She sensed that he wouldn't judge her—her true, fragile self. And he hadn't.

She ached for more of that, for more of him. But as she gazed at his resigned form sagging against the wall, raven hair curling around his slack jawline, she became aware that she wasn't the only one fixated upon him. Parsons' dark, beady eyes were also roving hungrily over Severus' body, and as his tongue slid out, flicking strings of saliva over his disgusting lips, she wondered if she may have just made a terrible mistake.

Parsons snuffled the air with his whiskery snout and licked his lips again—all the while keenly focused upon Severus who seemed to be completely unaware, contemplating the floorboards at his feet. Hermione gulped. Parsons was panting; his tongue was out and his fangs exposed. _No. Not that!_ Hermione pleaded silently. _Was he going to bite Severus now? Is that what the potion had compelled him to do?_ She realised then that she had no idea how a lustful werewolf would behave.

But as he approached his captive, Hermione was surprised to note that Parsons' steps appeared hesitant, his manner almost coy.

"I'm finding it rather warm in here," he simpered, his growly voice noticeably lighter.

Severus' head jerked up warily. He narrowed his eyes—clearly wondering what was going on. Hermione desperately wanted to warn him, but then Parsons would be tipped off about the switch. So she just watched. And cringed.

"I thought perhaps it was just me," Parsons murmured breathily. "But now I can see that you're looking quite warm too. Yes . . . really quite . . . hot . . ." He stopped in front of Severus, dragging his eyes up and down his torso before allowing them to rest on his crotch.

"Maybe you would be more comfortable if I just . . ." Raising his huge arms, Parsons grasped Snape's coat by the collar and tore the entire garment it in half, straight down the back, before shredding the sleeves with a flick of his claws and tossing the rags aside. Hermione's breath caught in her throat, Parsons had clearly dispensed with any pretence of subtle seduction.

"Yes . . . I believe that's an improvement." Parsons nodded, stepping forward and placing a paw on Severus' chest where the hard contours of his muscles were visible beneath his grey top.

"What the fuck do you want?" Severus growled, more animalistic now than Parsons.

Hermione expected the werewolf to simply flex his claws and carve down into Severus' ribs, but he didn't. Instead he extended a singular digit and drew the sharp nail across the rise of Severus' left nipple, not hard enough to hurt but sufficient to make Severus flinch in revulsion.

"Now, now, Severus." The werewolf's voice had taken on a sickly whine. "There's no reason that this . . . arrangement . . . shouldn't be mutually . . . beneficial. I could certainly make things more . . . enjoyable for you."

Severus' lips curled into a sneer. "Kill yourself. That should do the trick."

Hermione closed her eyes. _What the fuck was he doing?_ She didn't expect him to exactly encourage Parsons' advances but surely he recognised a change in the wolf's demeanour. _Maybe he could try to work out what had instigated it?_

Parsons' response, however, was even more unexpected—he chuckled, actually chortled, as he'd often done when conversing with Severus back at the Ministry.

"Oh, I couldn't do that," he grinned, continuing the claw down, causing Severus to arch forward in an attempt to withdraw from his touch. "Then I'd miss an opportunity to get to know you more . . . intimately."

With that, he brought his other paw up to grasp the front of Severus' top, tearing it from his body with one almighty rip. Hermione gaped. She hadn't quite expected this. The sight of a naked, 'hands-up' Severus instantly transported her thoughts back to the waterfall, the water sluicing down his sculpted body, hugging his boxers to his impressive groin, but this Severus had rivulets of blood trickling down his side, and a look of such intense fury on his face that she saw, instead, Severus from the Den. Killer Severus. And this time it was a relief. He hadn't given up. Not by a long shot.

Parsons gave a growly sigh as he took in Severus' heaving torso. "Severus, my boy. If I'd known you had a body like that, I would have taken Miss Bell's place on your desk."

Severus seethed. And as Parsons ogled his rock-hard abs appreciatively, Hermione noticed that the werewolf suddenly changed—in fact he shrank. But he was so focused on drooling over the semi-naked form before him that he didn't appear to notice.

Severus saw it too. She could tell by the instant change in his disposition. His eyelids shuttered and he lifted his prominent nose, peering down it as though he'd just developed a new appreciation for Parsons' odd behaviour.

"The smell of your blood is driving me wild," Parsons murmured, leaning over Severus. He was still at least a head taller but he'd definitely diminished. "Do you mind if I have just a tiny . . . little . . . taste?"

Severus paused. Hermione gave a slight shake of her head. He needed to play this right—like a game of chess, he needed to take his time and choose his moves carefully.

"Be my guest," Severus muttered drily.

Hermione could tell that it was taking every ounce of his self-control. She allowed her lips to curl into a faint smile. _Good Waterfall-Severus. Just keep him interested._

But her pleasure was short-lived as Parsons suddenly grasped Severus' forearm in his claw, pinning it against the wall before extending his long pink tongue to lap up the blood that was trickling down his bicep. The corpulent creature moaned and shuddered with ecstasy and Hermione found herself on the verge of throwing up.

Her master's heightened arousal also seemed to pique Shika's interest. Unwinding herself from the desk, she glided down to the floor, her forked tongue flickering in anticipation. And as she undulated towards them, Hermione felt the small spark of hope within her sputter. _Was there really any chance of them leaving this forsaken place alive?_

Even as her optimism waned, she noticed that Parsons was undergoing further transformations and, oddly enough, they weren't gradual. Instead, his body jerked and popped, bits of his humanness returning in random bursts. One of his pointed ears suddenly contracted and rounded, large clumps of fur vanished, leaving pink patches all over his enormous stomach, and his clawed feet retracted back to human size so that they were completely disproportionate to the rest of his body. Even more noticeable was the fact that he'd continued to reduce in size, rapidly approaching Severus' height.

For the first time in her life, Hermione felt herself overflowing with gratitude for Draco Malfoy. He might a disgusting little ferret but he'd done an exceptional job with this lust potion. It was so completely pervasive that even as Parsons' stature shrivelled to the point that he was now at eye height with his captive, he still hadn't registered that, without his lycanthropic potion, his werewolf form was well and truly on the way out. Even his tongue had transformed, such that he could no longer reach Severus' bicep and was now swiping away at the blood running under his armpit.

It was so gross and pathetic that Hermione felt a mounting sense of sad revulsion for the man. That was, of course, until he suddenly reached out a chubby hand and grabbed Severus' crotch. Severus tensed and inhaled sharply, making eye contact with her for the first time. Up until then, he'd been transfixed by the bizarre transformation, no doubt wondering if and when Parsons was going to bite.

With Parsons groping him gratuitously, he gave her a look that told her he knew what she'd done. She shook her head in an attempted apology, but he gave no indication that he accepted it.

Shika was completing slow circuits of the floorboards between them, keeping up her constant beady surveillance. The snake sensed that something was amiss—Hermione knew it. And in some ways it was now a greater threat than Parsons. Hermione watched the smooth ripples of its body warily, looking for any indication, any sign that she was preparing to attack. Hermione was desperate to avoid a repeat of the past. It just couldn't happen. Not to this man—twice.

An impatient hiss suddenly rattled from the agitated serpent and this seemed to jolt Parsons from his reverie. He stopped licking and groping, and looked up at Severus, a peculiar expression on his face.

"You use people, Severus," he said quietly, straightening his naked, hairless body, his voice now completely, and in some ways more disconcertingly, restored to that of their boss. "You're using me right now to pleasure you."

Severus' face remained stony.

"I need some indication that you're going to reciprocate if this is ever going to work out between us—that I mean something to you."

 _So it was a binding potion after all!_ Hermione's eyebrows shot up in alarm.

And then Severus kissed him.

A 'Liverpool Kiss.'

Or more precisely, a Cokeworth Kiss. He'd last employed it to fracture the skull of the town bully after returning from his fourth year at Hogwarts. Now he smashed his forehead against Parsons' face with such force that it caved in his nose, rendering him unconscious before he hit the ground with a tremendous splat.

A fraction of a second later, Shika struck.

She knew the spot—the exact location on his neck that her sister had targeted and she aimed directly for it. Unfortunately for her, Hermione was more flexible than she looked, a fact that Severus had discovered earlier in his bed. Crying out, Hermione threw herself at the snake, kicking her leg out to knock its striking body away. Shika's fangs smashed into the stone wall only centimetres from Severus' face.

It was all the time he needed.

"Accio!" His wand flew from the desk where Parsons had foolishly left it.

With a flick he'd released himself, and as Shika withdrew to strike again, he cast Confringo—a fiery blast shooting from the end of his wand, knocking her down. Time and again he struck her body with explosions, making her leap and writhe about like a possessed whip. Finally he lunged forward, crushing his boot against her head.

"Give my regards to your sister," he muttered before delivering the final blow. "Avada Kedavra!"


	17. Indulgenitalia

He stared at Shika's corpse, a complex mix of emotions settling upon his features. Hermione understood the significance of that moment. It was an opportunity to balance the ledger, to perhaps loosen the hold that his traumatic past had had upon him. So, despite being on the verge of collapse, Hermione maintained a respectful silence.

She was also unsure of whether he would forgive her for the potion swap. It had worked—bought them some hope when it had been all but lost. But she'd been underhanded. And the explanation for why she had a lust, or more accurately, binding potion in her possession, that had clearly been brewed with him as the target, was equally awkward.

But the moments that followed quickly dispelled her concerns. His eyes—dark and intense—met hers. And after a few swift movements he'd released her and gathered her in his arms. She had lost so much blood that she was on the verge of delirium but she clung to him with every ounce of her remaining strength.

She'd obviously hoped, from the moment she'd been snatched, that he would come for her. But the relief she'd felt at his tall, dark form came striding confidently in to embrace her, no doubt aware that he was in imminent danger but more concerned about comforting her than his own safety, squeezed her heart and forged a sense of connection with him on a level that was going to make it difficult for her to let him go.

He was still naked from the waist up, bleeding profusely from his wrist, but his eyes never left her, scanning her wounds, healing those that he could, and cleaning and sterilising the cuts made by the werewolf, aware as she was of the futility of trying to heal them without the appropriate ingredients.

Carrying her to a nearby chair, he placed her gently upon it.

"I need to leave. Just for a moment," he said.

She clutched him tighter and he cupped her gently by the cheek.

Then he did something unexpected. Despite the obvious urgency, he kissed her, deep and passionate. Somehow he'd known it was what she needed most. In that moment of near collapse, she needed it more than anything else. It calmed her, and told her everything was going to be alright. And maybe this time it would be.

Rising quickly, he entered the open door to the room that Shika had occupied. Moments later he re-emerged before moving to the other door and yanking it open, wand at the ready.

Hermione couldn't see into the second room but a series of scuffing and clinking sounds told her he was sorting through bottles or jars of some sort.

Moments later he returned, arms laden with items.

"Drink this."

He held a bottle to her lips before pouring a stream of bitter liquid down her throat. Within seconds, her pain had abated. The second potion he administered, instantly made her feel more alert.

Then she watched as he tapped the contents of two vials into a small bowl and mixed them into a paste with a spatula. Scooping the silvery mixture onto the tapered tip, he gently applied it to her cuts—first her cheek and then her chest. The skin of her face tightened as he drew the cool metal along it, and as he applied the paste carefully to her chest, she watched the bleeding from the ragged claw-marks halt and the skin instantly begin to knit together.

It was only when all of her wounds had been dealt with that he applied a smear to his bleeding wrist. It instantly clotted, healing over with a fresh scar. Severus downed two potions himself and Hermione noted that his entire body immediately relaxed. He'd, no doubt, been consumed by both concern and pain. Whatever he'd taken had alleviated one or both—and she really didn't care about the mode of action. It could be the most reviled drug in the world but she considered that, at that moment, he fucking deserved a little relief.

"My wand," she rasped through cracked lips. "It's in the desk. Can you please get it?"

Severus retrieved Hermione's wand from one of the drawers. Wrist sagging, she waggled it weakly at her hair, trying to cast a detangling spell. Unfortunately, all she managed to do was knot it further. He stilled her hand with his before pulling up a chair and casting quiet, gentle incantations that had her hair lifting and fluttering down, a shower of twigs and leaves falling from it.

"Vanity is a curse, Miss Granger," he murmured as his fingers raked through her locks. "I would have thought there were slightly more pressing matters to attend to."

Hermione nodded wearily. "I know. I just feel that werewolf on me. I thought if I removed all trace of him, I'd feel—."

Severus trailed his fingers down her cheek before resting his thumb against her lips, letting her know that he understood. Drawing his wand over her, he cast further cleansing and repairing spells until her clothes had been restored to their previous state. It was done with such gentle care, she felt tears welling in her eyes.

"Thank you," she whispered, squeezing her eyes closed. She couldn't trust herself to look at him.

"I should be thanking you," he murmured in her ear. "That potion swap was . . . exceptional." He leaned back from her and when she opened her eyes, she found him gazing at her intently. "I'll wait for the explanation."

Hermione sighed resignedly. She knew she was going to have to face up to it at some stage, she just wasn't looking forward to it.

"But right now we need to deal with this." He stood and turned to the huge naked body, lying as it had fallen to the ground.

Circling his arm, Severus cast a full body bind, pulling Parsons' limbs together before levitating the shredded grey top from the corner of the room and transfiguring it into a much larger garment which he wrapped around Parsons so that he had the appearance of a Mummy—with a severely disfigured face.

"That's considerate." Hermione looked up at him in surprise.

"Indeed. I didn't think we needed to be tortured with viewing that any longer than necessary."

With another flick, he levitated and repaired his shredded coat before shrugging it on.

Hermione couldn't help the small pang of disappointment at having his rippling form no longer rippling in front of her.

"So what do you plan to do with him?" Hermione rose on shaky legs.

"There are at least fifty dragons in a cavern nearby. I'm sure he would make a tasty, if decidedly unhealthy, breakfast."

"No!" Hermione stated firmly. "We need to take him back to the Ministry—to be dealt with appropriately. He needs to be interrogated."

Snape snorted. "He won't answer questions."

"He will if you ask them." Hermione gave him a knowing look.

Severus huffed. "Yes . . . that was a rather . . . unfortunate . . . result. I don't suppose you could have made the swap for some sleeping draught instead?"

"No. That potion was all that was . . . available." Hermione avoided his gaze.

"Are you sure you don't want to feed him to the dragons?"

Hermione shook her head.

"It would give you an opportunity to see if you could fit inside his carcass."

Hermione laughed. It hurt her stomach but she couldn't help it. "I think both of us could fit inside that carcass."

Severus chuckled. It seemed ridiculous that they should both be laughing with a mountain full of beasts nearby but the tension of the past hours still had them high on adrenaline.

"So, are we going to take him with us now?" Hermione looked at Parsons doubtfully, wondering how the hell they were going to get him out without being seen. "And how do we know that the other beasts won't just start the uprising when they discover he's missing—and Shika's dead?"

With a flick of his wand, Severus disintegrated the snake's carcass and swirled away the dusty remains.

"That room is full of psychoactive potions." Snape nodded to the open door he'd retrieved the bottles from. "Parsons has been keeping the beasts compliant by drugging them. Without the potions, control over them will dissipate. I suspect that they will naturally disperse over time."

Weaving his arm, he cast a silencing incantation before extending his elbow and releasing a giant fireball into the room, shattering the contents. Hermione couldn't help wondering whether he was simultaneously removing all evidence of his brewing misdemeanours. Regardless, it was the right thing to do.

Another complicated array of movements, and a set of incantations she didn't recognise, produced a set of three small floating globes above their heads, and a gradual lift of his wand tip had Parsons levitating from the ground.

Hermione watched all this in wonder. She'd never seen such a complicated array of simultaneous spell-casting. She'd been rather proud of her own wandless levitation spell that had allowed her to swap the Amory potion for the Lycanthropic potion that now sat in her pocket, but it was nothing compared to the skill required to control all of the objects that he now guided in various trajectories around the room. The globes flew out of the door, gliding in different directions while Parsons floated, like a fat sarcophagus just ahead of them. Severus paused a moment, appearing to stare into space before he inclined his head.

"The passage to the right is clear," he said, and there's nothing approaching from the left. "But remain behind me."

 _Of course_. _Forever the protector._

Progress was slow but Hermione found that she had the utmost confidence in him. The small globes occasionally came whizzing by, shooting down the tunnels ahead of them. When they passed the walls smeared with her blood, she averted her gaze, unwilling to recall the terror she'd felt upon entering this forsaken place.

A final turn to the left had them heading through a huge darkened cavern. And if it wasn't enough to be controlling three floating balls and a bound, unconscious boss, Severus flicked the tip of his wand to cast Lumos so that they could see their way over the rocky floor.

The vast grey morning that they gratefully emerged into had them squinting after the comparative gloom. Severus disappeared the globes before moving rapidly toward the apparition point, clearly keen to put the caverns behind them.

Hermione quickened her pace, placing a hand on his arm just before they reached it. "Are we going straight to the Ministry?"

"I believe that would be the best option."

"Can we return to the camp first?" she asked.

"We can send for our belongings when it's safer."

"I know but . . . but there's something I'd like to do."

He gazed at her, taking in her hopeful expression, the silvery claw marks on her face which would be a permanent reminder of the horror she'd endured. If she needed something right now, she would have it. Capturing her by the elbow and stepping into the point, he transported all three of them to the plain. Minutes later, they were at the campsite, a mummified Parsons still floating alongside.

"Can we leave him here?"

"I'm not sure that is the most prudent thing to do." Severus frowned.

"It won't be for long," Hermione pleaded. "I promise."

Severus regarded her, his lips pressed together in a slightly dubious pout, before reinforcing the body bind and sleeping incantations on Parsons with a flick of his wand, and levitating his body into the open door of the tent, floating him to the ground.

Hermione instantly hooked her hand around Severus' wand arm and pulled him toward the bank. He followed with reluctant steps until he realised where she was taking him.

"This is no reflection upon your cleansing charms," she assured him. "But I really feel the need for a good wash."

Severus' lips curled into a smirk.

"You looked so . . . refreshed . . . when I saw you standing under there." Hermione slithered down the wet grass, holding onto his arm to avoid falling into the water. "I just . . . really hoped to join you this time."

The hopeful expression in her eyes and shy smile on her lips made Severus's chest tighten. He had her back. She wasn't completely safe yet but she was with him—and he had no plans to let her go. She'd saved his life—even when he hadn't realised he'd wanted it. Of course she could fucking join him—every part of him, whatever she needed.

He unzipped his coat and Hermione's breath caught at the flash of lithe torso that was momentarily exposed before he returned his arms to his sides. She stepped closer, trying to peer into the shadowy gap. Finally the lure became too great and she simply slid her hands under his coat, running them up the warm skin of his abdomen.

"Have I told you how sexy I find you?" she murmured, her small hands tracing the taut ridges of his muscles.

"Not enough." His gravelly voice and warm breath suffused her hair as he leaned down to nuzzle against her ear.

Closing her eyes, she curled into him. "You are so . . . fucking . . . sexy," she breathed.

"Say it again," he muttered, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"Ohh," she moaned, feeling his tongue flick against her. "You are such a . . . fucking . . . sexy . . . beast."

With a growl, he lunged at her neck, and she almost collapsed. She was still weak and light-headed from blood loss but the sensation of his hot mouth plundering her, grazing and sucking at every erogenous zone that she never knew existed, had her moaning and swooning so gracelessly that she wondered what the old Hermione would think. And that shocked her. The existence of an 'Old Hermione' signified a transition—a change, a new mindset, a more open mindset. 'New Hermione', she realised, wanted to do more, try more, in fact she was determined to discover what it would be like to do whatever the fuck she wanted.

Sliding her hands up to Severus' chest, she grasped both of his taut nipples and squeezed them. He responded with another guttural growl, his lips breaking away from her throat and relocating to her mouth where he plunged his tongue inside to wrestle with hers.

Continuing her passage upward, Hermione's fingers crawled up to his collar bones before gliding down over his broad shoulders, taking his coat with them until she was thwarted at his biceps, which continued to wrap tightly around her. Disappointed, she reached for the fly to his trousers, suddenly desperate to see as much of his nakedness as possible. His sexy smirk twitched against her lips. Withdrawing the hand that had slithered beneath her shirt to grasp her naked breast, he gave a sophisticated wave and split the seams on all of their clothing simultaneously, allowing the material to slither from their limbs like two pale deciduous trees.

Lips never leaving hers, he prised off his boots, then stepped forward, lifting her easily against him. Holding her body with one strong arm, he pulled her boots off before hooking her legs around his waist. The sensation of his hard torso squeezed between her thighs was delicious, topped only by the sensation of his silken cock, bobbing gently against the cleft of her buttocks.

He carried her like that to the base of the falls, then stopped.

Giving his delectable lips a brief moment of reprieve, she leaned back, taking in his uncertain expression.

"What is it?"

His frown deepened. "I'm not sure how much you understand about male physiology but iced water and erections aren't particularly . . . compatible."

A spark of amusement lit her caramel eyes as a lascivious grin slid across her lips.

"I'll just have to keep it . . . warm for you." Her words were both measured and sultry, completely unlike anything she'd ever heard come out of her own mouth.

And it turned out that her fingers were equally licentious, feeling their way behind her backside to stroke his lovely warm cock. Using her thighs, she pushed up and away from him, positioning his head at the entrance to her pussy, which had been dripping from the moment he'd touched her.

Gazing into his impossibly black eyes, she lowered herself down, feeling herself stretch around him and watching the delicious flutter of his eyelids as his pleasure made itself known. Rocking gently, she worked his generous member further and further inside her until he was buried to the hilt.

Then his whole body relaxed. This had become his sanctuary. Buried inside another was his safe place. And she decided then that she could either resent it, remaining distrustful of a man for whom sex had become indelibly linked to a deep need for emotional security, who sought it out indiscriminately and may well continue to do so, or she could accept it.

Having this complicated, enigmatic, infuriating, arrogant, but equally generous, protective, brilliant and beautiful man indulging in her was never going to be the most difficult thing in the world to accommodate. Especially since her pleasure seemed to be equally important—perhaps a manifestation of his need to earn acceptance, to deserve love. Regardless, she was determined to revel in his revelling in her. Indeed, there may not be another opportunity beyond this.

Severus carried her under the waterfall and she screamed before the icy water stole her breath away. It was ridiculously, painfully cold, making her entire body tense as she gasped and spluttered for air. The roar of the water drowned out the sound of his laughter but she could feel it, his abdomen convulsing against hers. When she finally leaned out of the water, blinking furiously to clear her vision, she saw that he was smiling at her. And despite the numbness that had settled into her face, she smiled in return. This moment, seeing him happy, gave her hope that he'd reconsider the worth of remaining in this world a little longer.

Then his mouth alighted upon hers as he began gently thrusting into her—two delicious points of heat that contrasted starkly with the wall of ice cascading down upon them.

Hermione clung to his shoulders, returning his passionate kisses, breaking away occasionally for a gasping breath before returning to lap and suck at his lips and tongue, literally drinking him in with the droplets of water that trickled down from his slick hair. Her pussy gradually began to relax with the slow grinding of his pelvis and a coil of pleasure unwound from deep within her. With his arms braced around her hips and shoulders, he held her in place, lengthening his thrusts, and the simultaneous increase in tempo which jolted her clitoris each time he bottomed out inside her, made Hermione moan with ecstasy.

The sensory clash of the frigid water, which she'd adjusted to sufficiently so that it was now sending tantalising prickles through her skin, against the building heat within her core was so enlivening that the overwhelming tide of emotion surrounding their escape suddenly swamped her. She'd been so focused on survival that the magnitude of what had happened, and what could have happened, hadn't had an opportunity to permeate her thoughts. Now the realisation that they'd been granted a future was juxtaposed against the stark uncertainty surrounding it. _Did they have a future? Together?_

"Severus?" She spoke above the sound of rushing water, fixing her eyes upon his as she continued to rise and fall rhythmically against him.

"Mmmm?" His face was a picture of concentration.

"I wanted to come back here because . . . because I thought it might be our last opportunity to . . . to do it."

"What do you mean?" he frowned, stopping mid-thrust.

"I just . . . I don't know your plans." She shook her head.

He considered her for a long moment before resuming. "I don't have any plans. You fucked up the last lot."

Hermione couldn't help the smile that spread across her face. "And I'm glad I did."

He gave her a serious look. "I believe you owe it to me to rectify that situation."

"I'd gladly help you with some new plans," Hermione said. "As long as I'm in them." She played her final card. It was a risk but if she couldn't force some sort of commitment on the verge of orgasm under a waterfall in the Scottish wilds, where else could she do it?

He squeezed her tighter to him and rocked deep inside her. "As long as they include more of your cooking."

A giggle of relief escaped her. "Well that goes without saying. If the plans involved your cooking we'd both starve."

"I'll be responsible for . . . other things," he growled before thrusting into her harder.

"Oh Gods, Yes!" Hermione cried out as she felt the tension in her pussy surge.

Clamping her thighs around his waist, she met his thrusts with her own, speechless until he tipped her over the edge.  
"Severus!" she shouted into his chest as she came, fingers digging into his shoulders as her hips jerked about in his iron grip. Her pussy clutched and sucked at his cock which continued to delve into her, the exquisite stretch of her core enhancing the powerful contractions of her orgasm. Moments later, he was there. His mouth dropped open and his eyelids fell closed as he shuddered inside her.

With his seed ejecting into her gloriously welcoming channel, time and again, he felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for an opportunity that he would have denied himself—an existence that would never have been. He captured her lips as his final spurts were released into her, reminding himself that there was more to come.

He could hardly believe that she wanted him—not after everything that had come before. But the thought of building upon the unlikely union that they'd somehow forged, made him feel more optimistic than he'd allowed himself to be, in as long as he could remember.

"Thank you," she murmured against his lips. "I didn't want to hate this place. I needed a positive memory to take home."

"Now I just need to change your opinion of that bedroom of yours," he murmured.

Hermione smiled and kissed him, her heart soaring as she finally released him from the grip of her thighs, slithering back to the rocks before taking his hand and leading him out from under the falls.

She looked ahead.

Her heart stopped.

There was someone standing right there. Watching them.

She let out a shaky sigh.

It was Luna—arms crossed, a huge grin on her face.

"Well, my dear, that's certainly the most thorough hug I've seen in a while."


	18. Sinbiotic

"Sevvy, can you lay the table please?"

"I'm sleeping."

"No, you're not. You're reading. I can see you."

Severus glanced up from his book to see the small globe floating just inside the doorway.

Huffing, he slid a bookmark between the pages and placed it on her bedside table. He was having second thoughts about the value of teaching her the 'Sky Eye' incantation. The amount of times she'd used it to spy on him was getting ridiculous. She was a worse stalker than he'd ever been.

"You're still not moving," Hermione called. "Breakfast is getting cold."

Severus gave a sly smirk before throwing the bedcovers back, exposing his naked cock to the globe. Relaxing his legs apart, he simply lay there with his arms crossed.

He heard her snort from the kitchen. "I'll deal with that later. You _do_ know what's happening tonight, don't you?"

Of course he knew. The same thing that had happened the previous three months on the anniversary of the night she'd been snatched by a werewolf. It was a full moon. And something very special happened on a full moon . . . something that made his cock twitch just at the—

"We're catching up with my Hogwarts friends."

 _Oh, fuck!_ He huffed again, frowning down at his cock. It better not interfere with their full moon frolicking.

"We won't be late, will we?" he called back.

She laughed at that.

"Of course not. I'm beginning to feel a little . . . wild . . . already. You'll need to get me out of there before the moon gets too high. Otherwise . . . I might just have to do you . . . right . . . there."

His cock twitched again.

"But only if you lay that bloody table!"

"As long as I get to lay you afterwards," he muttered, leaning down to pick up a pair of socks from the ground and hurling it at the globe, knocking it out the door.

Hermione grinned as he sauntered from the bedroom—boxer shorts hanging so low she could practically see his cock—pulling an old grey tee-shirt over his head before running his fingers through his mussed up locks.

He stopped when he saw her sitting at the table, book on her lap, two plates of eggs and bacon before her and no cutlery.

"I don't suppose you could have retrieved them yourself?" His voice was deep and growly.

"No. That's your job. Remember how you were going to be responsible for . . . other things."

"I am."

He padded into the kitchen, ducking under her low-set cupboards to open the cutlery drawer. She loved seeing him having to negotiate her tiny kitchen. He looked so awkwardly adorable.

"Such as?"

He glanced up at her, having to crane his neck to see through the gap in the cupboards.

"Such as doing half of your work for you."

Hermione gave a dismissive wave.

"You just do the bits I can't do . . . Like getting Parsons to spill the beans."

Severus humphed before returning.

"I have you and your meddling cronies to thank for that."

Hermione took the cutlery that he offered.

"Draco and Ginny are hardly my cronies," she said. "And I explained all of that to you ages ago."

He hadn't been particularly impressed when she'd related the story of how and why the Amory potion had been created. He was even less impressed with the idea that she'd considered taking it. After the hundreds of women who'd thrown themselves at him, the notion of someone having to take a potion to sleep with him was probably a blow to his ego. Still, she hadn't taken it. And it also happened to have saved their lives. So she was pretty confident that he'd forgiven her—although he did seem to quite enjoy bringing it up at opportune moments.

"You can interrogate Draco about it tonight if you like," she added, popping a piece of bacon into her mouth.

"Draco?" He frowned. "I thought this pleasant little gathering was for your Hogwarts _friends_."

"Friends and partners."

He snorted. "So Potter's fucking Malfoy now is he?"

Hermione clamped her lips together, trying not to smile. "You say the most ridiculous things sometimes."

He smirked as he lifted his coffee to his lips. "You like it."

It was true. She loved it. He was so much funnier than she'd expected. He'd been extremely dry and sarcastic at Hogwarts but now she found him to be quite delightfully absurd, just like herself. His delivery was brilliantly timed and so surreptitious that, when they were out together, she was often left shrieking with laughter while he remained deadpan, a single eyebrow cocked to indicate he suspected she had a screw loose.

"I _was_ going to keep it a surprise, but it turns out that Draco is the 'Mystery Man' that Katie has been talking about this past couple of months."

He raised both eyebrows this time. "Katie and Draco?"

Hermione nodded, picking up a triangle of toast with her fingers.

"That's a good match." There was a small smile on his lips as he took another sip of coffee.

Hermione watched him closely. She wasn't concerned about him having residual feelings for Katie but she knew he was ashamed about the way he'd treated her and had been pleased when she seemed to be smitten with another man.

However, Draco would hardly have been Hermione's first choice for Katie. She needed someone who would treat her well—especially after what she'd been through with the cursed necklace—and, admittedly, with Severus. But there was no accounting for taste—and it was clearly working on some level.

She bit into her toast.

"Did I provide cutlery so that you could eat with your fingers?" he queried.

Hermione took another gratuitous bite and smiled sweetly at him. He picked up his own cutlery and set about fastidiously dissecting and consuming his breakfast—forever the Potions Master in so many of his mannerisms.

"I've actually been meaning to ask how you've managed to get so much out of Parsons."

Severus finished his mouthful and took another gulp of coffee.

"Sometimes I let him lick me."

"Really?"

He peered at her from under knitted brows and she knew she was being gullible again.

"So how _do_ you do it?"

Severus sighed and leaned back. "I carry some dog treats in my pocket, scratch him under the chins and tell him what a good boy he is."

Hermione smirked. "Anyway, despite your unwillingness to share your 'wolf whispering' methods, it has been extremely helpful. He's implicated so many others in the uprising, we're going to be interrogating and prosecuting for the rest of the year. "

"It sounds like the new Head of Division is going to have her . . . hands full."

Hermione gazed at him wondering, not for the first time, how his luscious voice could mould the most innocuous of statements into sexual ones.

"Indeed, I am." She decided to ignore the innuendo. "In fact, I'd be far less busy if you'd agreed to the co-head position."

"I've had enough head in my time," he drawled, easing his backside forward so that his knee nudged hers. "Headmaster, Head of Slytherin, Head fucking spy for Voldemort. I'd rather allow someone else to take the responsibility."

"And just interfere at every opportunity," Hermione finished.

He snorted, rubbing his bare leg against hers. "Someone needs to ensure that the correct decisions are made."

"I always make correct decisions," Hermione replied in mock indignation.

"Sometimes." His hand slid onto her knee and massaged it gently.

"I made the correct decision about you," she smiled, extending her leg to nestle her heel in his crotch.

"I believe so."

She curled her toes around the warmth of his cock. Dropping his fork, he brought both hands down to massage her foot, simultaneously rubbing it against his swelling member.

"You need to save that for this evening," she groaned. He had the most wonderful hands. And cock.

"I believe I can make myself . . . available . . . again by then." He continued rubbing her sole against the contours of his erection.

Her breathing had already turned ragged. "Okay. Just one fuck. On the table."

He chuckled. She always needed to have the final word—to feel like it was her decision.

With a wave of his hand, he cleared the breakfast away. Eyes never leaving hers, he stood, but rather than stepping around the table, he simply forced it forward with his groin until he reached her, lifting her with one arm and lowering her onto the smooth surface.

The flush of her skin enhanced the silvery hue of the claw marks tracking down one cheek. He loved that she never Glamoured them. They looked like the markings of a warrior. Which, of course, she was.

* * *

It was the first time that either Severus or Hermione had been in a pub since they'd returned from Scotland. They'd tended to avoid such places, preferring to take walks in parks, drink coffee in quaint cafés, spend hours trawling through book shops and, of course, play chess and just be together in their flats.

Despite the fact that they hadn't been to any of his usual haunts, Hermione was often aware of being watched. She'd notice a young woman frowning at them from across the room while they were eating breakfast, another looking her up and down in an antiques shop, a couple of women smirking as she and Severus passed on the way into a movie theatre.

Severus was well known—practically a celebrity and, no doubt, people thought it odd to see him with someone as . . . ordinary . . . as she. There were no slutty clothes or gaudy jewellery. She didn't hang off him, simply holding his hand on occasions or leaning across the table to peck him on the cheek. One woman asked her in the supermarket, when he was off choosing a loaf of bread, if she was his therapist. Obviously people were having difficulty imagining 'Bad Boy' Snape settling down with someone so seemingly proper.

But she didn't care. And even tonight, despite entering a bar which was likely packed with his past exploits, she held her head high, leading him through the door by the hand, dressed in a nice dress and a pair of killer heels. They could all kiss her ass. She wouldn't be watching him. She trusted him. Despite everything, she had to trust him. Otherwise there would be no future between them. And that wasn't something she was ready to entertain.

She couldn't see anyone she knew, so Hermione headed for the bar, figuring that a glass of wine would go down well before the others arrived. Severus would only drink sparkling water but he never minded her drinking alcohol around him. In fact, the only vice he seemed to have retained were the cigarettes. And she'd come to accept those as part of him. She didn't approve but it wasn't frequent enough to be annoying. And, she had to admit, the sight of him leaning over his balcony rail in the late evening, shirt open, smoke curling from his lips, was kind of really sexy. Actually, just about everything he did she found sexy so it wasn't really a tick in the cigarette box.

"Severus! How good to see you!"

A man dressed in a pale blue suit and wearing a chunky gold chain strolled up to Severus with his hand extended.

"Edgar." Severus shook his hand and nodded stiffly.

"And who do we have this time?" The man flashed a gold tooth at Hermione, who only just managed to avoid screwing up her face in revulsion.

"This is Hermione Granger, the Head of the Ministry for Magic, Magical Creatures Division."

"Oh." The man's smarmy grin fell away. "I see. Well, um . . . pleased to meet you." He offered a weak handshake. "Oh look, there's Nigel. I promised I'd buy him a drink. Good to see you both. Bye."

He forged through the growing crowd, clearly eager to get away.

"Git," Severus muttered.

"Really? He seemed like such a nice man." Hermione smirked. "Actually, it's getting busy, I might grab a table while I can. Would you mind buying?"

"Of course." He slipped away toward the bar while Hermione sat at one of the bench tables in a corner.

No sooner was she seated than someone slid into the seat opposite.

"Granger."

It was Draco. She hadn't seen him in some time and, she had to admit, he seemed different, softer somehow, not as slick and angular and . . . ferrety.

"So the potion worked then?" He nodded at Severus, who stood out in his stark black and white against the bar.

Hermione hadn't told anyone what had ultimately happened with the potion.

"You might say that."

"Good. I hoped I hadn't I'd lost my touch," he grinned.

She appraised him for a moment. There was something that she'd been wanting to know since Parsons had unwittingly taken it.

"I _was_ led to believe it was an Amory potion. It wasn't, was it?"

Draco shrugged. "Lust doesn't last long. I figured you two needed a bit more than that."

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the door. Ginny came stumbling in, lips locked onto a dark-haired man. Hermione blinked in surprise when they finally came up for air. It was Harry.

"Like I said." Draco nodded at them. "I figure some people just need a little more."

It took a few moments for his words to sink in.

"Are you saying that you made a potion for Ginny?"

Draco scooped up some peanuts from a bowl on the table and dropped a few in his mouth.

"Not that she's aware of. And I'd prefer if it was kept that way. She tends to get a bit . . . feisty."

"So you gave her a binding potion without her knowing it?" Hermione was on the verge of being appalled when she realised that that was pretty close to what Ginny had wanted to do to her.

"She seems happy." They looked at the couple who were at it again.

"Doesn't that particular potion require a sample of a certain bodily fluid?" Hermione frowned.

Draco swallowed his mouthful and tossed a few more in.

"Where there's a will there's a way."

"A way to get Harry's . . . stuff?"

"Polyjuice."

Hermione's mouth hung open. She absolutely didn't want to know any more.

"I'd met someone else," Draco continued, apparently unconcerned. "I liked her a lot. Ginny didn't understand. I needed to do something."

"Couldn't you just tell Ginny to bugger off back to her fiancée?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"She wouldn't have. And, anyway, that wouldn't have been very . . . nice."

"Nice?"

 _When the fuck had Draco Malfoy suddenly started worrying about being 'nice'? And since when had drugging someone to make them do something that they wouldn't otherwise want to, and deceiving another person as a result been considered nice?_

"Dray, I need you over here." Katie Bell called out from a table a little way away. Hermione hadn't noticed her there.

"Dray?"

He shrugged again and tossed a final handful of peanuts into his mouth before smirking and sauntering away.

Hermione watched as Katie grabbed him possessively and dragged him down for a kiss. She didn't expect Katie to come over and talk to her. They were professional at work but she knew that she still wasn't Katie's favourite person. Katie had been the one to send Luna back out to Scotland to check on them. Apparently she'd been worried about something. No doubt worried that Hermione was getting too close to her man.

Anyway, there was a chance that 'Dray' would eventually make her forget her feelings for Severus—if not with his sparkling personality, she was confident he wasn't beyond resorting to an underhanded Obliviation potion or two.

Ginny finally released Harry when she spied Hermione sitting in the corner.

"'Mione!" Ginny gave her a huge hug. "I haven't seen you in ages. I thought you might be avoiding me."

"No, I've just been busy."

"I bet you have." She raised her eyebrows and nodded toward Severus who was still at the bar. Hermione's gaze followed hers. She smiled when she saw him fix the barman one of his stern frowns. Their drinks wouldn't be far away now.

"And I see that you and Harry seem to be getting along . . . amazingly." Hermione smiled.

"Isn't he just gorgeous?" Ginny gazed at him adoringly.

"Um . . ." Hermione looked at Harry who was now talking to Luna. "I can see why you think so."

It was the best she could come up with. Harry was Harry. She loved him. But he wasn't Severus. Not by a long shot.

"Well, I just think he is the most wonderful person in the world. I'm so lucky to have him, 'Mione, I really am. I just don't know why I couldn't see it before?"

"Well, sometimes you just need to infuse a little . . . magic . . . into the relationship."

Ginny nodded as though she'd just said something wise. She hadn't. And she really shouldn't be alluding to what Draco had done until she'd had a chance to think about if, when and what she should tell her—in fact, both of them. But it was a conversation for later. Not now.

"Miss Weasley." Severus had finally returned, handing Hermione a drink.

"Professor," Ginny replied evenly.

They stood awkwardly for a moment before he continued. "May I have a word?"

Ginny glanced at Hermione who gave a faint nod before she moved around to speak with him. Meanwhile, Ron had arrived and was talking to Harry so Luna approached Hermione.

"Yes, Professor?" Ginny folded her arms.

He cleared his throat. "I wanted to apologise for what happened . . . the last time I saw you." He was clearly uncomfortable but she remained quiet, allowing him to speak.

"You said that you hoped I'd managed to get that . . . woman out of my system?"

Ginny nodded slowly.

"The truth is that I haven't. And I don't think I ever will."

Ginny could just see Hermione's back behind him. She wasn't listening but Ginny was on edge—she wondered where this was going.

"But I realise now that I can only accept the past—not bring it back." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "One's life should be dedicated to the living, not the dead—spent with people who enhance life. I'm fortunate to have that now. It's no excuse and I certainly don't expect you to forgive me but I wanted to provide you with some sort of . . . explanation."

"I do actually understand. I've lost people close to me too." Ginny's lips tightened with the painful memory of Fred.

Severus suddenly reached out with one arm and drew her into him. "And that's what makes what I did all the more reprehensible. I've been wallowing in my own . . . shit for so long, I couldn't see my way out. And I didn't want to. I didn't want to recognise the pain in others—pain that I often caused. I do sincerely apologise."

Ginny nodded as he released her, looking up into his face and seeing that he meant it. "You can make it up to me by looking after my girl. She's a pain in the arse. But she has a heart bigger than anyone you will ever know. And she loves you. I can tell by the way she looks at you."

Hermione had never said it. And yet she didn't need to. He already knew. They both did. It was so natural that they should be together that neither of them even questioned it. She was an oasis in what had essentially been a desolate life. Even when he'd had everything he thought he wanted, he was never satiated, never quenched, he thirsted for more because it was all wrong—everything. And when he found the right thing, the relief was so monumental, so complete, that it was something he never wanted to risk losing.

He squeezed Hermione's hand that had been locked inside his for the entire conversation. Hermione squeezed him back.

"And how's the hugging going?" Luna asked her, an enigmatic smile quirking up the corners of her lips.

"Very well as a matter of fact." Hermione smiled shyly, but there was a heat in her eyes that revealed the true depth of her feelings for him. "You were right. He is a very good hugger."

Luna tipped her glass appreciatively before her face turned serious.

"And the demons?"

Hermione sighed. "They're still there—they always will be I think. But the intensity is gradually subsiding. Now, I can manage to get him back to sleep when he wakes from one of his nightmares. It just takes a hug . . ." She eyed Luna ". . . a proper one . . . and a few reassuring words."

"That's wonderful. It really is." Luna put a hand on her arm. "But I meant yours."

Hermione stared at her, then sighed deeply. It was just like Luna to see right through her.

"I think I have them on the run too. He calms me. His energy is so . . . fluid . . . sanguine . . . I can't help but melt when I'm around him."

Luna smiled. "Maybe another dip under the falls would help with that?"

Hermione laughed before glancing furtively over her shoulder.

"We actually have plans to return . . . on the full moon," she said.

"Full moon?"

"Oh, it's just the anniversary of us getting together."

Luna nodded sagely but Hermione couldn't help wondering what she knew. She was much like the moon herself—beautiful, bright and mysterious. Luna by name and nature.

Glancing up at the window, Hermione gasped. The full moon had risen and was hanging like a huge luminous melon in the sky.

"We have to go, Severus," she spoke urgently over her shoulder, her fingernails digging into his wrist. "Now."


	19. Debaucherie

A/N: Sincere thanks to the wonderful Marriage1988 for allowing me to breathe a little life into her delightful story idea. Her written contributions, including some of the most poignant conversations and Severus' history, added a depth to the characters that I could never have achieved alone. Thanks to all of you for contributing your thoughts, particularly those guest reviewers who I can't respond to, Giada and Smithback who have left regular comments. Your engagement with my stories continues to make this adventure worthwhile – it's what keeps me writing. This is my last fic ready to post. I hope to have something new in the near future. Until then, DSx

* * *

The waterfall would have to wait this time—she wanted her flat, and quickly. The moon seemed to follow them, like a glowing balloon on an invisible string, as they strode along the darkened streets, their footsteps tapping out an urgent rhythm that only added to the mounting tension that seemed to twine around every fibre of their bodies.

Severus' response to the ethereal draw of the full moon was an exquisitely heightened level of arousal, a keen sharpening of his senses, and a carnal desire that astoundingly managed to surpass all previous levels—even when he'd been under the influence of some serious stimulants. So he could only imagine how Hermione felt. Unlike him, she'd suffered a multitude of wounds, the pawful of ragged scars scoring her cheek and chest testifying to the amount of contact the werewolf had made with her tissues and fluids.

Her grip on his hand had tightened to the point of pain. It was one of the most prominent changes; her strength this evening would easily surpass his. And her stamina was . . . well, let's just say he would need Sunday to recover and still be aching deliciously for any number of days afterwards.

There were only two flights of stairs up to her flat but it was all he could do to force her up them before she'd managed to divest him of all of his clothes. In fact, by the time he thumped the door closed behind them, she'd already conquered everything but his trousers—her covetous hands filled with his, now buttonless, shirt, torn jacket and, amazingly, both boots.

Dumping them on the ground, she slammed him against the wall with the palm of only one hand. He was mildly winded but it wasn't enough to quell the smirk that instantly slid across his lips at her impressive display of dominance. For someone so petite, and often exceedingly proper, her predatory antics and voracious sexual appetite were both deeply endearing and ball-tinglingly erotic. These moments thrilled him, sending a powerful surge of desire shooting straight to his cock, making him wonder if he could possibly be any more turned on.

And then she growled.

It wasn't exactly wolf-like but it wasn't entirely human. More like a hungry tigress, a low vibration rolling exquisitely around the back of her throat—causing his skin to prickle and quiver. He _could_ be more aroused as it turned out—especially at the thought of what was coming next.

Both of her hands lingered on his fly. The fingernail of her index finger—fine, narrow, not claw-like but, again, sharper than usual—she trailed in a languorous line just below his bellybutton making his abdominal muscles dance. He clenched his jaw, trying to stop himself from growling in response. He didn't want to raise her ire. Not that he was worried about her becoming violent, it's just that the following required a . . . _gentle_ touch. If she suddenly developed a taste for fresh meat he'd be in trouble. Half of his blood supply was currently residing in his cock—a good bite and he'd bleed out instantly.

As it was, she kept one hand pressed against his naked abdomen, holding him firmly against the wall as she slithered down his body, pulling his trousers and boxers down with the other. The hand pinning him to the wall wasn't at all required, it wasn't as though he was going to attempt to escape—he wasn't insane—but it was all part of her maintaining dominance, despite her position. And feeling the power pulsing behind the soft flesh of her palm, knowing the impact of her lightning fast reflexes if he even tried to move, was erotic in the extreme.

He allowed the groan to slip through his lips as her warm breath panted against the engorged flesh of his head, throbbing in time with his racing heartbeat.

Without warning, she took him. He hissed—a rapid inhalation of breath sucking between gritted teeth. Her mouth was searingly hot and her tongue longer, stronger and more flexible than any human tongue he'd ever felt. It whipped and slithered around his head and probed insistently at his slit as though trying to burrow inside. He needed to calm down—keep a lid on it—even though he could feel the tension already building in his clenching balls like a pressure cooker. Whilst his stamina would also be increased, and his recovery quicker, he couldn't afford to come too quickly. Not with what she had planned.

He reached down and raked his fingers into her wild locks. It felt thicker than usual—and there seemed to be more of it. Gently massaging, he eventually managed to persuade her to moderate her pace—she calmed a little, rubbing into him like a cat between voracious sucks on his cock. He could temper her a little like this. But she was still very much in control. A fact now verified by the firm grasp on his balls as she tugged him with her strong fingers before forcing his cock further into her mouth.

"Fuck!"

His head slammed back against the wall. She was utterly merciless, her muscular throat gripping and straining around him in powerful waves. A moan strained from his own throat as he clenched his abdominal muscles, trying to hold on. Even as his fingers ground against her scalp more forcefully, trying to ease her back, she drove the final nail into his cock-shaped coffin.

Prising his lids open, he had to assure himself, not for the first time, that she'd never been touched by that fucking snake. The sinuous undulations of her lips around his cock, the way she wove mesmerically to stimulate him was positively serpentine. And despite all this primitive animalism, this carnal cavorting she remained his—his Hermione. She was still stunning, those caramel eyes, gilt with primal need, were also filled with a deep desire to please him as they locked onto his.

An ocean of warmth flooded him. Even his most exceptional encounters in the past had been infused with a degree of desperation, a constant probing for more, with the knowledge that he would never be fulfilled. But with her, every moment forged a new level of intimacy and a deeper bond. It was unlike anything he'd ever imagined—the idea that someone could open him up like this, taking him beyond the need for self-preservation, away from his old habit of using before being used.

He could come right now. Easily. The sight of her—the Minister—the mouth that had been used to deliver some of the most inspiring and uniting words he'd ever heard, now being used to pleasure him—a man who had previously disgusted her, had disgusted himself, now accepting him deeply into her. He just loved it.

But he wasn't disappointed when she stopped—when she released his cock, flushed and glistening from her tumescent lips. Because they simply relocated upward to his, devouring his mouth, her tongue lapping deliciously into him, probing and licking as she continued to stroke and fondle his cock, stirring him up at both ends until he was panting with desire.

"I want you to fuck me," she murmured huskily, drawing her sharp nails across his jawline.

"The couch?"

"Mmmm . . . hard."

He couldn't imagine doing her any other way in that moment. The wolverine taint made his blood simmer, infusing his muscles with a hot tension that made him want to bury himself as deeply inside her as possible. Lifting her with one arm, he used the other to remove her clothing—deft, wandless incantations causing each item to slip off in their wake until her supple, muscular body was lying nestled against his, the moonlight filtering through her windows turning her into a moonscape of milky curves and shadowy crevices.

He inhaled deeply as he ran the tip of his nose down the curve of her neck. "This is all mine," he whispered against her, slithering his palm over her breast, down her abdomen to her pussy, where his fingers burrowed through her bush into her molten channel, drawing a shuddery moan from the recesses of her throat.

"Show me how much you want it," she breathed, twisting her neck to nip at his face.

Lifting his head, he gazed into her shining eyes as he continued to delve his long fingers into her. He could never show her how much he wanted her. His heart would simply cave in. But he would express to her in the language of sex—one he'd thought he'd known well but had learned more about in the past four months with her than in all the years previous—exactly how intense his feelings for her were.

In a flash, he'd spun her around and flung her, front first, over the couch. She gripped the top with her strong fingers, arching herself back so that her buttocks lifted and opened to him, straining onto her toes to give him better access. Crouching, he slithered both hands down her inner thighs and pulled her legs apart before spreading her cheeks and labia with his large palms so that everything was on display.

He loved all of it—her deliciously swelling pearl, warm creamy tunnel and that tight musky opening that she didn't often let him near but tonight she would. Tonight she'd want him to give it a lot of attention. In fact, she'd demand it.

Starting at the apex of her labia, he licked upward, swirling his tongue over and around her clitoris. She gasped and tensed and he felt her buttocks clenching under his fingers. Gradually he worked his way up, catching the sweet nectar that was already overflowing from her pussy before sliding his tongue inside her.

With a moaning sigh, she slumped further over the couch, pressing her stomach into it to lever her backside up for him. It was very much a demonstration of female receptivity, an encouragement to mate, and his cock, twanging excitedly against his stomach was more than ready. But she'd told him to show her how much he wanted her. And so he firmed his tongue and used it to ream the margins of her opening, rolling his head from side to side to drag his muscle in and out of her slick perimeter. It drove her wild- _er_.

Grunting, she surged up and down, her hips pumping into the couch. He had to move with them to keep his tongue inside her.

"Severussss," she hissed, her fingernails digging into the fabric until there was a sharp ripping sound. "I need you up further. In my—Yessss!"

He was already there, tongue tickling and probing into her clenching ring of muscle. Pulling her cheeks wider, he pressed into her, dipping and delving until she was bucking so forcefully that he just remained still, tongue out, allowing her to guide herself wherever she wanted him, back into her pussy, over her clitoris and finishing on her arse which he coated liberally with saliva. She never wanted a lot of lubrication, she preferred it rough but still, he wanted her to at least be able to sit the next day.

Then he was up, pulling her back a little from where she was practically embedded in the couch before grasping his cock and sliding his head up and down her cleft, tracking it through the pool of juices at her pussy before sliding down to rub against her clitoris and gliding up further to press against her back passage, testing it with his helmet.

"I need you to fuck me now," she moaned, having clearly reached the limits of her patience.

"Show me how much." His voice was gravelly with need. He'd also reached his limit.

Feeling behind herself, she grasped his hand with hers, guiding his cock back down to her pussy before inhaling deeply and ramming backwards, impaling herself on him.

"Unnnhhhh." She arched back, the ropey muscles of her biceps bulging as her grip on the couch tightened.

Pulling out, he slammed back into her—over and over again but she had the strength to hold herself steady, bracing her arms so that her backside met him on each thumping return. They were like a perfectly tuned timepiece, each working part fitting and moving against the other except that the clash of bodies was brutal, and carnal, and exactly what they both needed. His balls smacked into her as she reared back into him, her strength continuing to surprise him, despite already enjoying three such glorious nights in the past. And the most impressive part was that her enhanced muscularity extended right down into her core. Her pussy grabbed powerfully at him, strangling his cock, squeezing it like she was trying to wring the come from it before his balls had even had a chance to catch up.

His face was a rictus of effort as he worked to both pummel her and hold off coming. He was determined to take her as many times as possible that evening. Not that he ever missed out in between—they fucked almost daily. But it wasn't about the sex. This night was a reminder that they had survived; both were still alive. The scars were with them, inside and out, but they were challenging them, defying them, replacing those terrifying memories with new ones—far richer and infinitely more wonderful ones. These nights mattered because they memorialised their joy in being alive . . . and together.

She was gasping and moaning and getting close to coming—he could feel her tightening, locked around his cock like a vice. Suddenly, she forced him back so that he was squeezed from her pussy before she reached around to grab his tacky cock and positioned him at her back entrance.

"When you're about to come, turn me around," she panted.

She knew him so well already—knew that this would be his undoing. And he knew her too, exactly how and where she would want him.

"As you wish," he purred, curling his body against hers, cocooning her underneath him so that he was pressing as much of his bare flesh against hers as physically possible. He wasn't going to ram in hard, even though he knew she would take it. He wanted this to be slow and gentle—he did love her after all. Gradually, he pressed his cock into her, holding her tight around the waist as he combed his fingers up under her hair, rolling it back so he could drag hot, wet kisses across the nape of her neck.

She whimpered beneath him, her body quivering as he worked deeper into her. He was confident that it wasn't pain, but the overwhelming sensation of her passage being filled, the sense of him working against the reflexes that were desperately trying to expel him. But he continued to massage her scalp as he licked and kissed her and she began to purr—a soft reverberation rolling up from the back of her throat.

He slid slowly out before easing in, the delicious sensation of being crammed inside her intense heat making him feel so warm and safe that he had half a mind to just stay there, allowing her exquisite body to pulse around him. But she would soon tire of that. She wanted to come. And she wanted to make him come. She was already pushing back—forcing him deeper into her, dragging him toward the point of no return.

He'd been on the verge of coming for so long now that his balls were aching. But she always insisted on watching him. For some reason it was important to her—even when they were doing it wolfie-style.

Halting his thrusts, he pulled back a little but kept his cock inside her. Leaning down, he grabbed her by the leg and pulled it up, twisting her around until she was facing him, her backside perched on the back of the couch, one leg stretched up against his shoulder, the other curled around his waist, _oh so beautifully fucking flexible,_ and hands now locked around his neck, drawing his forehead down to rest against hers.

She saw herself reflected in his impossibly black orbs—like crystal balls foretelling a future of her inside him; him inside her. She loved gazing at the heat burning within him, seeing as well as feeling him wanting her, his restrained but powerful cock now gliding smoothly in and out. Being fucked like this was so raw but so incredibly intimate, she would never have imagined allowing this level of vulnerability with anyone. But she found that she did with him, constantly. It was as though there was nowhere she couldn't go with him, nothing was off limits.

She could let her instincts take over on these nights—let herself go and not be afraid of the consequences. She'd hurt him before—scratched him, bitten him, left marks that hadn't faded for days. And yet he seemed to love it—never allowing her to heal or glamour them, fingering the welts absently as he read his book beside her, or contemplated his next chess move.

She could feel the tension mounting again, a fresh surge of arousal drilling into her muscles, making her want to bite him again. That delicious mouth—succulent lips hanging loosely just an inch from hers. She could so easily sink her teeth into them, simultaneously tasting his life force as he forced himself into her, but she was finding it difficult to breathe now. He was still pumping into her arse, faster now, but two fingers had also slipped into her pussy, easily working the tight angle while he nudged her clitoris with his thumb on each instroke.

As he expertly played her, she never sensed that this was a trick—one of many in his repertoire, to impress her, she just felt him wanting to please and pleasure her as desperately as she wanted to please him. It felt personal. He knew her body and exactly what she wanted. Even on these nights where it was so much more extreme, he knew.

Lunging forward, she finally did capture his lips, sucking and licking them between gasping breaths.

"I love you," she murmured, her lips trembling against his.

He pulled back to look her in the eyes and she watched the complex mix of emotions appropriating his, once perpetually austere, features. He let her see so much now—especially in these moments. The tears welled as his face contorted. He was going to come. And so was she.

"I love you, Hermione." His beautiful baritone wavered, the physical and emotional strain showing. "And I love you for . . . loving me—Uuuuhhhhh."

He ground his fingers against the front wall of her pussy as he felt his cock start to seize. His head jerked back and his entire body began to shudder. A rising moan escaped her lips as he continued pumping into her until she shattered around him with a feral cry. Her fingernails pierced his shoulders as her pelvis convulsed and her limbs quaked, both channels simultaneously squeezing his fingers and cock like a spasmodic milking machine. And it was most effective, her shuddering passages drew wave after wave of come from him, sucking him dry and beyond, squeezing him until he felt both completely empty and completely full—full of overwhelming feelings for her—of love.

As his heavy lids opened to behold her, his chest filled until he felt it would surely burst, seeing her at her most raw and vulnerable, in all of her exquisite beauty—lips hanging open in shocked ecstasy, eyelids fluttering over shining caramel eyes, still riding out the last waves of her orgasm, his plunging cock and fingers drawing her out.

Finally, she pitched forward, collapsing onto his shoulder—head rocking gently from side to side as she tried to come down.

After a while, voice little more than a hoarse whisper, she lifted her head and murmured wearily against his cheek, "Bedtime, Sevvy?"

Without a word, he gathered her to him and carried her into the bedroom—that tiny room with the flashing red light that she seemed to want to spend more time in now than anywhere else.

Holding her to him, he lay down and covered both of them with the quilt. She liked to rest on him after sex—arms wrapped around him but legs ensconced between his, head nestled beneath his chin. They would lay like this, dozing on and off, until his eager cock woke her, twitching insistently against her belly, or her hand snaked down to fondle him, signifying that she was ready again.

They fucked twice more during the night. One time he was sitting—she was on top, hands clamped around the back of his neck as she squatted over his cock, her powerful legs lifting and dropping her pussy in a frantic rhythm that had him gripping the quilt in an attempt to prevent himself from coming in record time. She fucked him so emphatically and so thoroughly, that his entire body shuddered with each forceful thud into his crotch. She was definitely the fucker and he the fuckee in this exchange. And still she watched him so intensely, and kissed him so passionately, it was as though she was showing him that he could submit to her and he would still be safe, that she would look after him. And she did. He cried out when he came—a catharsis as all of this was. Each coupling was a release, breaking away another chunk of coping, replacing it with trust in each other's sanctuary.

After that they made love. He was on top, filling her in long, languorous strokes as she cupped his face in her hands, her legs wrapped around his hips, drawing him into her. It was impossible in that moment to discern exactly where his body ended and hers began, they had melted together into a single organism, fused together by their mutual acceptance. Tears had trickled from the corners of her eyes even before she came. He no longer worried about it. She was healing as much as he was.

Now she was awake again, stroking him with her singularly silken touch that made him shiver as though back under the waterfall. The light outside had changed, a grey dawn was now spreading across the rooftops.

"We might be done for the evening," he sighed, scratching her head.

"I could keep going a little longer." Hermione lifted her head from his chest, giving him an exhausted but hopeful look, before leaning over and opening her bedside drawer. She pulled out a clear glass potion bottle.

"What's that?"

"Parsons' Lycanthropic potion—from the swap." She placed it on his chest.

Severus shook his head.

"I don't ever want you to take drugs or potions to change yourself for me." He looked at her seriously. "Do you understand?"

She understood. He was determined not to carry the shame from his past into their relationship—he'd made that clear on many occasions.

Placing the bottle on her bedside table, she picked up her wand and disintegrated it, leaving a pile of fine shards in its place. His eyes followed hers to a second bottle in the drawer. She picked that up too and placed it on top of the sparkling debris.

"And what about this one?" she asked.

He looked up at her, searching her face. A small, enigmatic smile played on her lips as she fingered her wand.

It was a contraceptive potion. He'd seen enough of those in his life.

They'd already discussed moving into a house together, somewhere bigger, with a yard. Neither had indicated why they needed the extra space. It had simply hung between them, not uncomfortably so, but any admission would signify such an extraordinarily huge step, something so significant that each was averse to broaching it in case it would cause everything to fall apart.

"I don't think we'll be needing that one either." His eyes didn't deviate from hers. It was a risk to suggest such a thing, especially considering how comparatively early they were in their relationship, and especially the manner in which it had all started. But he'd never been surer of anything in his life.

Her face softened, the scars on her cheek turning bronze in the light of the rising sun, and a smile of relief spread across her delectable lips.

Without a second thought, she flicked her wand and disintegrated that bottle too.

"Looks like we're not done for the evening after all," she murmured, lowering her lips to his.

Threading her fingers through his hair she took her time to enjoy tasting the man that felt so familiar and made her feel so contented that she could never imagine letting him go. And now it seemed that she would never have to. He was hers and she was his. They deserved each other. Warts and all.


End file.
